THE POESY OK FLOWERS. 47 



THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 



Meek dwellers raid yon terror-stricken cliffs! 

 With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 

 Whence are ye ? Did some white-winged messenger, 

 On Mercy's missions, trust your timid germ 

 To the cold cradle of eternal snows, 

 Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 

 Hid them with tear-drops nurse ye? 



Tree nor shrub 



Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine 

 Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, 

 Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice, 

 And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 

 Who bids you bloom unblanched, amid the waste 

 Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 

 O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 

 Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge 

 Into eternity, looks shuddering up, 

 And marks ye in your placid loveliness 

 Fearless, yet frail and, clasping his chill hands, 

 Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 

 Of mountain summits rushing to the sky, 

 And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 

 He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 

 Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale, 

 And freer dreams of heaven. 



Mr*. Sigournty, 



