44 



THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 



And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — 

 (Though sometimes w ith a hand stretched back fh)m 



heaven) 

 Steadfast through all things — near when most forgot— 

 And with its finger of unerring truth 

 Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour. 

 One lamp — thy mottier's love— sunid the stars 

 Shall lift its pure fiame changeless, and before 

 The throne of God burn through eternity — 

 Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. 



K. P. WiLlIg. 



There is no other land like thee. 



No dearer shore ; 

 Thou art the shelter of the free, — 

 The home, the port of liberty. 

 Thou hast been, and shall ever be, 



Till time ii o'er. 

 £re I ff rget to think upon 

 My land, shall mother curse the son 



She bore. 



J. G. Pkbci 



