102 V OLCE OF FLOWERS. 



Thou know st to burst the tyrant gloom 



Of Winter s icy urn ; 

 Teach them to break the envious tomb, 



And to our arms return. 



Thou canst not ! To our grieving souls 



Thy boasted spell is o er ; 

 From all thy gifts to those we turn, 



Whom thou canst ne er restore. 



To those o er whom thy quicken d turf, 

 With earliest snow-drops grows , 



Yet fails to wake their wonted smile, 

 Or move their deep repose. 



Yes ; from thy charms to Him we turn, 

 Who laid our treasures low, 



And, with a Father s love, ordains 

 Our discipline of woe : 



We look to that unsullied clime, 

 Where storm shall never sweep ; 



Nor fickle Spring the heart beguile, 

 Nor drooping mourner weep. 



