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THE FLOWER SPIRIT.
When earth was in its golden prime,
Ere grief or gloom had marr'd its hue,
And Paradise, unknown to crime,
Beneath the love of angels grew,
Each flower was then a spirit's home,
Each tree a living shrine of song;
And, oh! that ever hearts could roam—
Could quit for sin that seraph throng!
Ere grief or gloom had marr'd its hue,
And Paradise, unknown to crime,
Beneath the love of angels grew,
Each flower was then a spirit's home,
Each tree a living shrine of song;
And, oh! that ever hearts could roam—
Could quit for sin that seraph throng!
But there the spirit lingers yet,
Though dimness o'er our visions fall;
And flowers that seem with dewdrops wet
Weep angel-tears for human thrall;
And sentiments and feelings move
The soul, like oracles divine;
All hearts that ever bow'd to love
First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine.
Though dimness o'er our visions fall;
And flowers that seem with dewdrops wet
Weep angel-tears for human thrall;
And sentiments and feelings move
The soul, like oracles divine;
All hearts that ever bow'd to love
First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine.
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A voiceless eloquence and power,
Language that hath in life no sound
Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower,
And hallows even Sorrow's ground.
The wanderer gives it Memory's tear,
Whilst home seems pictured on its leaf;
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear,
Come o'er him—beautiful as brief.
Language that hath in life no sound
Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower,
And hallows even Sorrow's ground.
The wanderer gives it Memory's tear,
Whilst home seems pictured on its leaf;
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear,
Come o'er him—beautiful as brief.
'Tis not the bloom, though wild or rare,
It is the spirit power within,
Which melts and moves our souls, to share
The Paradise we here might win.
For Heaven itself around us lies,
Not far, not yet our reach beyond,
And we are watch'd by angel's eyes,
With hope and faith still fond!
It is the spirit power within,
Which melts and moves our souls, to share
The Paradise we here might win.
For Heaven itself around us lies,
Not far, not yet our reach beyond,
And we are watch'd by angel's eyes,
With hope and faith still fond!
I well believe a spirit dwells
Within the flower! least changed of all
That of the pass'd Immortal tells—
The glorious meeds before man's fall;
Yet, still, though I should never see
The mystic grace within it shine—
Its essence is sublimity,
Its feeling all divine.
Within the flower! least changed of all
That of the pass'd Immortal tells—
The glorious meeds before man's fall;
Yet, still, though I should never see
The mystic grace within it shine—
Its essence is sublimity,
Its feeling all divine.
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