Morning Herald

Flowers, lovely Flowers: ye are to me
The most dear and precious things:
Nature's soft pencil over you
Has breathed its brightest coloring;
Ye mean to me, though blooming here,
Bright beings of another sphere,
A fairy band! apart, alone,
A bright and beauteous race:
Blooming wherever ye are sown,
And waste in every place:
Filling the air with fragrance,
Wherever ye may smiling be.
Brightening alike the cultured scene,
Blooming the lava's paths between,
On the untrodden rock;
Braving the thunder-shock;
Glowing, unscared, beneath the sun,
Unchilled within the forest lone.
Night darkens round—the wild bird's wings
Are folded upon its nest;
But ye, most fair and fragrant things!
Fled not away to rest:
Ye see the glorious night-star rise.
And watch it leave the morning skies.
The honey-bees that settled on,
Yet scarcely bent, your stems;
The butterflies that o'er you shone,
Like living, moving gems:
Have left ye—while shall fall on you
Fresh treasures of the evening dew.
Oh! ye are like those few breasts
That heavenly Genius fires:
Where'er its glorious spirit rests,
Where'er its light inspires,
It will be known, its flowers will spring,
Nor heed to what rude spot they cling.
And long, long vigils they will keep,
Night's silent, dark hours through,
While other eyes are closed in sleep;
Gathering their honey-dew
From where the poet and the sage
Have left it, on the deathless page.
But ye will die, sweet flowers! and so
Must they sink to the earth:
The spring again will see ye blow,
With even a brighter birth.
O! shall not they, from this world driv'n,
Bloom on eternally in heaven?