x 3 2 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
And when they say, “ Turn, wandering heart, 
Thy Lord is risen 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 reverently advance. 
But where, in gentle spirits, fear 
And joy so duly meet, 
These sure have seen the angels near, 
And kissed the Saviour’s feet. 
No ; let the pastor’s thankful eye 
Their faltering tale disdain, 
As on their lowly couch they lie, 
Prisoners of want and pain. 
O guide us, when our faithless hearts 
From Thee would start aloof, 
Where Patience her sweet skill imparts 
Beneath some cottage roof: 
Revive our dying fires to burn 
High as her anthems soar, 
And of our scholars let us learn 
Our own forgotten lore. 
