ON A FLOWER,
Plucked from the grave of Mrs. C—— B——, the wife of Lieut. B——, and daughter of Col. V——, who died at Fort Towson, Ark. Ter.
I saw a beauteous little flower,
Which grew upon a grave,
’Twas pluck’d from its own proud stem, which long’d
Its darling flower to save.
And a tiny bud was borne away
With the lovely parent flower;
But a careful hand that loved them well,
Has kept them till this hour.
The plant which lost them hung its head,
And droop’d for many a day;
But the gentle breeze and the beaming sun
Prevented its decay.
It would have died had not the friend
Who gave those beauteous flowers,
Water’d it oft with refreshing dew,
And gentle summer showers.
O, why didst thou droop and hang thy head,
Bereaved and desolate one?
Is not thy flower far more prized
Than when it was thine own?
When on thy stem it gaily grew,
It was admired and loved;
But many a rude and chilling blast
The trembling flow’ret moved.
Now it is kept with tender care,
And many a friendly eye
Has gazed at the beautiful sever’d branch,
With a tear of sympathy
For thee—bereav’d and drooping plant,
The tears were shed for thee!
They would not weep for thy lovely flower,
In such kind custody.
’Tis guarded well by one you love,
And kept with watchful care;
And no rude hand may ever touch
That flower to thee so dear.
And the hour comes on when thou must die,
How soon that hour may be!
Now is it not better thy beautiful branch
Should first be removed from thee?
As thus I gazed on the treasured flower
That grew on a lonely grave,
I thought of the silent sleeper there,
Whom no earthly love could save;
And of him who gladly would have died
For her who was taken away,
Who bow’d his head to the stormy blast,
And droop’d for many a day.
O, why didst thou droop and hang thy head,
Bereav’d and desolate one?
I know from thy loved and cherish’d flower,
’Twas hard to part so soon.
But knowest thou not she is far more safe
Than in thy sheltering arms?
For now she liveth in beauty bright,
And fears no sudden alarms.
O, knowest thou not that a heavenly Friend
Is keeping her safely for thee,
And myriads of bright and holy ones
Are joining her minstrelsy?
And the flower pluck’d from thy darling’s grave
Will never again revive,
But the blossom torn from thy throbbing breast
Shall ever in beauty live.
And the hour is coming when thou, frail man,
Shalt lay thee down and die;
And who can tell but thy sainted love
Now waits thy coming on high,
And will joyfully greet th’ unfetter’d soul,
Releas’d from its prison of clay,
And herald thee on through fields of light,
To the blaze of eternal day?
Charleston, Dec. 27, 1839.