120 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
When holy maids and matrons speak 
Of Christ’s forsaken bed, 
And voices, that forbid to seek 
The living ’mid the dead. 
And when they say, “ Turn, wandering heart, 
The Lord is ris’n indeed, 
Let pleasure go, put care apart, 
And to his presence speed 
We smile in scorn ; and yet we know 
They early sought the tomb; 
Their hearts that now so freshly glow, 
Lost in desponding gloom. 
They who have sought, nor hope to find, 
Wear not so bright a glance ; 
They who have won their earthly mind 
Less rev’rently advance. \ 
But where in gentler spirits, fear 
And joy so duly meet, 
These sure have seen the angels near, 
And kissed the Saviour’s feet. 
INor let the pastor’s thankful eye 
Their flattering tale disdain. 
As on their lowly couch they lie, 
Pris’ ners of want and pain. 
0 guide us, when our faithless hearts 
From Thee would start aloof, 
Where patience her sweet skill imparts, 
Beneath some cottage roof; 
