FLOWERS. 
The Flowers ! 
Oh they are glorious in the morning light, 
Of a Spring morning — beautiful and bright. 
As childhood’s hours. 
They seem 
Radiant with promise of the blissful day — 
The rainbow-tints that gild our childhood’s way. 
In Life’s first dream. 
They bring 
All fond emotions to our hearts once more. 
The faces, forms we loved so well, before 
Hope first took wing. 
They tell 
Of love’s first meeting, vows that now are broken. 
The tears and sighs ’mid which all sad was spoken 
The word— Farewell ! 
At eve, 
Flowers, ’mid the Autumn have a witching charm, 
Pouring a comfort, and a breath of balm, 
O’er hearts that grieve. 
For then. 
When the gay glitter of life’s day is gone, 
When earthly Hope is like a primrose wan. 
In the dark glen; 
And Love, 
E’en as a rose o’er which the storm hath passed. 
Scattering its leaves on the relentless blast, 
Seems borr.e above ; 
The Heart 
Looks for the coming of that fadeless day, 
When we shall meet the friends now passed away, 
Never to part. 
And where 
Flowers of all glory, and all beauty, bloom, 
Touched by no blight, and fearless of the tomb— 
For ever fair ! 
Author of ” Stray Flowers.” 
