DEOPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 97 
THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 
MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! 
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
Whence are ye ? Did some white-winged messen¬ 
ger, 
On Mercy's missions, trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows, 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 
Bid them with tear-drops muse ye ? 
Tree nor shrub 
Dare that drear atmosphere; no poplar pine 
Uproars a veteran front; yet there ye stand, 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unblanched, amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who panting, toils 
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o’er w'hich the headlong plunge 
Into eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness — 
Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing to the sky, 
And chaining the wrapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast. 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 
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