Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/92

90

I kissed the tender violet, That droop'd its stranger head, And called it blessed, thus to grow So near my precious dead, And when my venturous path shall lead Across the deep blue sea, I bade it in its beauty rise And guard that spot for me.

There was no other child, my dead! This sacred task to share; Mother! no nursling babe beside, E'er claim'd thy tenderest care. And father! that endearing name, No other lips than mine E'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayer At morn or eve's decline.

Pluck not those flowers, thou idle child, Pluck not the flowers that wave In sweet and simple sanctity Around this humble grave, Lest guardian angels from the skies, That watch amid the gloom, Should dart reproachful ire on those Who desecrate the tomb.