Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/104

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Thou know'st to burst the tyrant gloom Of Winter's icy urn; Teach them to break the envious tomb, And to our arms return.

Thou canst not! To our grieving souls Thy boasted spell is o'er; From all thy gifts to those we turn, Whom thou canst ne'er restore.

To those o'er whom thy quicken'd turf, With earliest snow-drops grows, Yet fails to wake their wonted smile, Or move their deep repose.

Yes; from thy charms to Him we turn, Who laid our treasures low, And, with a Father's love, ordains Our discipline of woe:

We look to that unsullied clime, Where storm shall never sweep; Nor fickle Spring the heart beguile, Nor drooping mourner weep.