OK, LANGUAGE OP FLOWEBS. 157 
the Spirit of the Rose spoke to him thus : 
—“ Do I not animate a beautiful plant; a 
cup of thanksgiving full of fragrance to 
the Lord, in the name of all flowers, and 
an offering of sweet incense to Him ? And 
where do you find me? Among thorns. 
But they do not sting me; they protect 
and give me sap. This thine enemies do 
for thee; and should not thy spirit be 
firmer than that of a frail flower?” 
Strengthened, the man went thence. His 
soul became a cup of thanksgiving for his 
enemies. 
—XS>°°<9§><— 
THE ALPINE FLOWERS * 
Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
Whence are ye P—Did some white-winged messen¬ 
ger 
On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows P 
* This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney’s 
poetry. It is in some respects so sublime, that it 
forcibly reminds us of Coleridge’s Hymn before sun¬ 
rise in the Vale of Chamouny. 
