35 2 
Holy Flowers. 
Were treasured up traditions hoar: 
And each still lake and mountain lone 
Had a stern legend of its own : 
And hall, and cot, and valley stream, 
Were hallowed by the minstrel’s dream. 
Then musing in the woodland nook 
Each flower was as a written book, 
Recalling, by memorial quaint, 
The holy deed of martyred saint; 
The patient faith, which, unsubdued, 
Grew mightier, tried through fire and blood. 
One blossom, ’mid its leafy shade, 
The Virgin’s purity portrayed ; 
And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 
Spoke of a Saviour crucified ; 
And rich the store of holy thought 
That little forest flower brought, 
Doctrine and miracle, whate’er 
We draw from books, was treasured there : 
Faith, in the wild woods tangled bound, 
A blessed heritage had found; 
And Charity and Hope were seen 
In the lone isle and wild ravine. 
Then pilgrims, through the forest brown, 
Slow journeying on from town to town, 
Halting ’mong mosses, green and dank, 
Breathed each a prayer before he drank 
From waters by the pathway side ; 
Then duly, morn and eventide, 
Before those ancient crosses grey, 
Now mould’ring silently away, 
Aged and young devoutly bent 
In simple prayer—but eloquent! 
For each good gift man then possessed 
Demanded blessing, and was blest. 
What though in our pride’s selfish mood 
We hold those times as dark and rude? 
Yet give we, from our wealth of mind, 
More grateful feeling, or refined ; 
And yield we unto Nature aught 
Of loftier or of holier thought 
Than they who gave sublimest power 
To the small spring and simple flower ? ” 
