THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 185 
Mild Charity’s glow, 
To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt. 
Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffus’d in a Tear. 
The man doom’d to sail. 
With the blast of the gale. 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o’er the wave. 
Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
The soldier braves death. 
For a fanciful wreath. 
In glory’s romantic career; 
But he raises the foe, 
When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
If, with high bounding pride, 
He returns to his bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson’d spear; 
All his toils are repaid, 
When embracing the maid. 
From her eye-lid he kisses the Tear. 
Sweet scene of my youth, 
Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where Love chas’d each fast-fleeting year; 
Loath to leave thee, I mourn’d, 
For a last look I turn’d, 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
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