(Like Hope sent down to re-illume Despair)
Burned on the bush, displaying every leaf,
And bud, and blossom, with such perfect light
And exquisite splendour, that since then my heart
Hath deemed it Nature's favourite, and mine eyes
Fall on it never, but that thought recurs,
And memories of the by-past, sad and sweet.
ROSE of the desert! thou art to me
An emblem of stainless purity,—
Of those who, keeping their garments white,
Walk on through life with steps aright.
Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above,
Whose soil and air are faith and love;
And where, by the murmur of silver springs,
The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings;—
Where those who were severed re-meet in joy, Which death can never more destroy ;
Where scenes without, and where souls within, Are blanched from taint and touch of sin ;
Where speech is music, and breath is balm; And broods an everlasting calm;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this; And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss ;
Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
And all is lovely, and all endure ;
And day is endless and ever bright;
And no more sea is, and no more night ;—
Where round the Throne, in hues like thine,
The raiments of the ransom'd shine;
And o'er each brow a halo glows
Of glory, like the pure White Rose !
WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF A BUNCH OF THESE FLOWERS IN THE ALBUM OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY C C
"Look to the lilies how they grow !
"Twas thus the Saviour said, that we,
Even in the simplest flowers that blow,
God's ever-watchful care might see.
Yes! nought escapes the guardian eye
Of Him, who marks the sparrow's fall,
Of Him, who lists the raven's cry—
However vast, however small.
Then mourn not we for those we love,
As if all hope were reft away,
Nor let our sorrowing hearts refuse
Submission to His will to pay.
Shall He, who paints the lily's leaf,
Who gives the rose its scented breath,
Love all His works except the chief,
And leave His image, Man, to death?
No other hearts and hopes be ours,
And to our souls let faith be given
To think our lost friends only flowers
Transplanted from this world to Heaven.
SIMPLEST of blossoms! to mine eye
Thou bring'st the summer's painted sky;
The maythorn greening in the nook ;
The minnows sporting in the brook ;
The bleat of flocks; the breath of flowers;
The
song of birds amid the bowers;
The crystal of the azure seas;
The music of the southern breeze;
And, over all, the blessed sun,
Telling of halcyon days begun.
Blue-bell of Scotland, to my gaze,
As wanders Memory through the maze
Of silent, half-forgotten things,
A thousand sweet imaginings
Thou conjurest up-again return
Emotions in my heart to burn,
Which have been long estranged; the sky
Brightens upon my languid eye;
And, for a while, the world I see,
As when my heart first turned to thee,
Lifting thy cup, a lucid gem,
Upon its slender emerald stem.
Again I feel a careless boy,
Roaming the daisied wold in joy;
At noontide, tracking in delight
The butterfly's erratic flight;
Or watching, 'neath the evening star,
The moonrise brightening from afar,
As boomed the beetle o'er the ground,
And shrieked the bat lone flitting round.
Yet though it be, that now thou art
But as a memory to my heart,
Though years have flown, and, in their flight,
Turned hope to sadness, bloom to blight,
And I am changed, yet thou art still
The same bright blossom of the hill,
Catching within thy cup of blue
The summer light and evening dew.
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