No garland, fresh from Eden's bowers,
Could be more sweet than these dear flowers
To each surviving friend;
They'll water them with falling tears,
And nurse them through succeeding years,
And from each ill defend.
Bloom on, each weeping parent cried,—
My daughters planted you and died,—
You are most dear to me;
Each now in smiling beauty stands,
Where placed by these fair youthful hands,—
Sweet rose and lilac tree.
Bloom on, bloom on, perfume the air,—
I love to see you flourish there,
And in bright beauty bloom;
Each tiny leaf I hold most dear,
Although you oft call forth a tear
For loved ones in the tomb.
Bloom on, sweet flow'rs, while yet you may;
Your fading leaves will soon portray
The lovely, fragile form,
Which passed from earth while skies seemed fair,
Like vapors quiv'ring in the air,
Before a coming storm.
I gaze upon these opening flowers—
They bring a dream of blissful hours,
When brighter germs were mine;
Once on my throbbing bosom lay
Sweet budding blossoms, fair as they,
Fraught with immortal minds.
'Neath summer skies these flow'rs will fade—
Fair emblems of the youthful dead,
But spring restores their bloom.
Just so the saints that droop and die,
When Gabriel's trump shall rend the sky,
Will leave the mould'ring tomb.
They'll leave this dull, this earthly sod,
And, in the garden of our God,
Bloom with celestial grace,
Where frost and mildew ne'er can blight;
There, all enraptured with delight,
God's wondrous works they'll trace.
FOOTNOTES:
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