University of Virginia Library

Oh! if the rose be hailed the queen,
A princess is the lily,
And modest violets, I ween,
And humble daffodilly;
The primroses and pansies fair,
Sweet-William and the daisies,
Beautiful Flora's children are—
Their loveliness her joy and care:
And every summer hour
Some blooming flower
Its bright face raises,
And in its silent beauty Flora praises.

Flora! should'st thou appear
Thy starry family among,
Upon a white cloud, on a morning clear,
Borne by a soft wind strong;
Scarfed with the rainbow thou would'st be,
Zoned with hue-changing mother-of-pearl;
And o'er thy forest-tinted robe
Deep golden maiden-hair would curl;
And on thy open bosom would rest,
Most blest,
The queen-flower, Rose;
Giving to the beauty lily-bright,
Hair-shadowed, as the hills by Night,
The rosy-tinted sunset light
Of Alpine snows.

O Flora!
Thou dost minister
Ever in tenderness,
Ever in truth.
To thee the flower-spirit, kindest heaven
This work of love in charge hath given,
To adorn and to bless,
To teach and to soothe;
And every budding, blooming flower,
Every flower fading,
With a spiritual power
In the work is aiding;
Whilst thou, still-faced, and with love-lighted eye,
Apparell'd all divinely,
Oft wandering near invisibly,
Dost smiling watch benignly.
Whilst by a flower some heart is healed,
Or by a flower some truth revealed,
Or in a garden, wood, or field,
Or by a stream,
Some heart love-tranced, shadowed by visions fearful,
Wakes from its dream,
Flower-disenchanted, to a hope-dawn cheerful.

Thee, Flora! every maiden,
Herself a flower,
Most warmly blesses;
Because in lonely and forsaken hour
Thou comfortest distresses.
Full oft her heart is heavy-laden,
As by honey stored within,
Which none may win
But he who comes as delicately
As to a flower comes the bee.

Imogen—Una—Marion fair—
Susan, and Grace, and Eleanor—
Louisa, Jane, and Mary—
The heaven has bless'd you every one;
Ye each have blossom of your own,
And, like the flowers, vary.
Ye live not for yourselves alone,
Compassionate and tender;
And even as the flowers are,
O Flora! cherished by thy care,
Of maidens delicate, and pure, and fair
Our love shall be defender.

Flora, beautiful and wise,
Skill'd in human mysteries!
Hearts there are to hymn thy praises,
Many and lowly as the daisies—
Daisies, which embellish spring
With half-hidden blossoming.
Hearts there are, deep and pondering,
Flower-filled with love and wondering;
Every when and every where
Sweetest flowers welcome are.
At sight of some fresh-blossoming flower,
The curtain'd sick receive a power;
To him that sorroweth and striveth,
The flower-cup wine of comfort giveth;
Wine medicinal and pure,
Wine to cheerfulize and cure.
The little one, too early blest,
Hath flowers in his coffin'd rest;
New-gathered blooms their odours shed,
Sweet as the memory of the dead.
At festivals and seasons holy,
Times of mirth and melancholy;
In solitude, in joy, and care,
Sweetest flowers welcome are.
The maiden changing to the wife,
Now in the bloom-hour of her life,
Hath flowers in her hand and hair;
Flowers upon her bosom are.
Oh! gather from the rough hill-side
Some flower to adorn the bride!
It shall fade, let love endure
Strong as the hill, its flower as pure.
Like white blooms in the thick, black tresses,
'Mid fortunes dark are love's caresses,
And light or dark, as flowers with hair,
Love and life enwoven are.
When griefs, Time's roaming archery,
Scattering arrows wantonly,
Wound in unexpected hour,
Then for healing touch a flower;
Nature is the robe of God—
God the merciful and good:
Flowers are the embroider'd hem,
Virtue he hath given them;
Tremulous and blushing sorrow,
Unrebuked, may healing borrow;
Welcome as flowers, so welcome we
To the blessings of their ministry.

Flora! when the eastern flush
Doth the coming sun betoken,
Stillest morning's sacred hush
As yet all unbroken;
Dewed nourishingly, every flower
In joy awaits the hour
When, sun-touched, it shall brightly open.

Then, as pass the hours,
Freshly work the flowers;
And ever some one, stooping sadly,
Culls an opening blossom gladly;
And looking long within,
As in a glass sees there,
Something of his spirit, undefiled with sin,
And yet undimmed with care.

But different in their ministry
These flowers of the dawn;
For some shall grace festivity,
Some comfort the forlorn;
And some shall please the poor and sick,
And some the fair adorn;
But all shall work most lovingly,
For therefore were they born.
The green earth hath its flower, the sky—
That mighty flower of blue;
And whilst it still blooms bright and high,
Shall lesser flowers bloom too.
Work, Flora, then, rejoicingly,
And give us blossoms new.