POETRY OF FLOAVERS. 
179 
They flourishly freshly, though beneath 
Lie the dark dust and creeping worm, 
They speak of Hope, they speak of Faith : 
They smile, like rainbows thro’ the storm. 
Pluck not the flowers—the sacred flowers ! 
Go where the garden’s treasures spread. 
Where strange bright blossoms deck the bowers, 
And spicy trees their odours shed. 
There pluck, if thou delightest, indeed, ' 
To shorten life so brief as theirs. 
But here the admonition heed— 
A blessing on the hand that spares ! 
Pluck not the flowers ! in days gone by 
A beautiful belief was felt. 
That fairy spirits of the sky 
Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt. 
Perhaps, the dead have many a guest 
Holier than any that are ours. 
Perhaps their guardian angels rest 
Enshrined amidst the flowers. 
Hast thou no loved one lying low. 
No broken reed of earthly trust ? 
Hast thou not felt the bitter woe 
With which we render dust to diist ? 
Thou hast! and in one cherished spot, 
Unseen, unknown to earthly eyes. 
Within their heart, the unforgot 
Entombed in silent beauty liea 
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