Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/90

88

Still deeper seem'd the Lily's tone My listening ear to greet: "Think not for sympathy alone That thus to thee I make my moan,    Though sympathy is sweet;

"No. Be my wound thy lesson made,   We love your nobler race, Whose lot it is like ours to fade, Like ours, to see in darkness laid     Your blossom's wither'd grace.

"So, let the Will Supreme be blest,    And Still with spirit meek, Shut rebel tear-drops in your breast, And wear, as badge of Heaven's sweet rest     Its smile upon your cheek."