

FLOWERS. 
THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 
Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, 
Whence are ye? Didsome white winged mes- 
senger 
On Mercy’s mission trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ?— 
—Tree nor shrub 
Dare that dread atmosphere; no polar pine 
Uprears 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 which the headlong 
plunge 
