Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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WITHERED FLOWERS. |
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| II. |
 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
WITHERED FLOWERS.
Adieu! ye withered flowerets!
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr sighs.
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr sighs.
Ye were the sweetest offerings
Which friendship could bestow—
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined,
Into a fairy coronal,
Its sunny brows to bind.
Which friendship could bestow—
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined,
Into a fairy coronal,
Its sunny brows to bind.
Ye deck'd the coffins of the dead,
By yearning sorrow strew'd
Along each lifeless lineament,
In death's cold damps bedew'd;
Ye were the pleasure of our eyes
In dingle, wood, and wold,
In the parterre's sheltered premises,
And on the mountain cold.
By yearning sorrow strew'd
Along each lifeless lineament,
In death's cold damps bedew'd;
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In dingle, wood, and wold,
In the parterre's sheltered premises,
And on the mountain cold.
But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves,
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanished loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers!
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves,
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanished loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers!
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
There comes a blast to terminate
Our evanescent span:
For frail as your existence, is
The mortal life of man!
And is the land we hasten to
A land of grief and gloom?
No: there the Lilly of the Vale,
And Rose of Sharon bloom!
Our evanescent span:
For frail as your existence, is
The mortal life of man!
And is the land we hasten to
A land of grief and gloom?
No: there the Lilly of the Vale,
And Rose of Sharon bloom!
And there a stream of extacy
Through groves of glory flows,
And on its banks the Tree of Life
In heavenly beauty grows.
And flowers that never fade away,
Whose blossoms never close,
Bloom round the walks where angels stray,
And saints redeem'd repose.
Through groves of glory flows,
And on its banks the Tree of Life
In heavenly beauty grows.
And flowers that never fade away,
Whose blossoms never close,
Bloom round the walks where angels stray,
And saints redeem'd repose.
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And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
We wither and depart,
And leave beind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart.
Yet, when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
We wither and depart,
And leave beind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart.
Yet, when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |