Hymn Of The Flowers.

A Memorial of the First Mass of ——, One of Eleven Young Jesuits Who Said Their First Masses at Woodstock on the Feast of S. Aloysius, June 21, 1874.

I.

Chosen from many,

Tenderly nurtured,

We budded to sunlight,

Our fragrance we scattered;

Queens of the garden,

Languishing beauties,

Reserved for high favor—

Fair flowers! fair flowers!

II.

Emblems of purity,

Fitting for virgins,

Our sisters are gathered

To grace the blithe maidens

Who go to their bridals—

Oh! fair be their fortune.

Glad flowers! glad flowers!

III.

Emblems of innocence,

Fondly we're sought for:

Young mothers will scatter

The blossoms just budding,

Will scatter our sisters,

Kept still fresh and dewy,

With sad pearls of affection,

O'er the vanishing image

Of the lost darling—

Ah! kindred with blossoms.

Sad flowers! sad flowers!

IV.

Emblems of triumph,

Emblems of glory,

The nations will cull them,

Will cull from our sisters

To honor their true ones.

Mingling with life,

Mingling with death,

The flowers will crown the hero's brow,

Or wreathe the stone that marks his grave.

Frail flowers! frail flowers!

V.

But we—O glad fortune!

O blest among flowers!—

We have been chosen

High o'er our sisters:

Culled for the altar,

We gave all our beauty,

We spent all our perfumes,

When God's priest in oblation

Pronounced his first fiat.

How we trembled with rapture

When the Christ was descending!

Oh! our bloom caught new glory

From the priest's face all radiant,

As he held for adoring

His God in his hands,

And our odors were mingled

With prayer from his lips.

And, oh! the pale mother

Who guided his lisping,

Who gave up her peerless,

The one jewel left her,

Robbed her breast for God's warfare,

The gift ne'er recalling—

How her heart is now pealing,

Ringing out unto heaven

Glad chimes that are drowning

The dull whispers of sorrow!

And the prayer of th' Anointed,

The heart-voice of the mother,

The breath of the flowers,

Triple incense, are wafted

Up, up to God's footstool.

Ah! such incense is treasured;

Our odors shall die not.

They give fragrance in heaven

To that glad first oblation

Of God's priest at the altar.

Blest flowers! blest flowers!