The weary soul by care opprest
May utter no complaints,
But loaths the weight it cannot bear
And weakens till it faints.
[Flowers.]
Bring flowers for the youthful throng,
Of variegated glow,
And twine of them a gaudy wreath
Around each childish brow.
Bring flowers for the maiden gay,
Bring flowers rich and rare,
And weave the buds of brightest hue
Among her waving hair.
Bring flowers to the man of grief—
They hold the syren art,
To charm the care-look from his brow,
The sorrow from his heart.
Bring flowers for the sick girl’s couch;
’Twill cheer her languid eye
To know the flowers have bloomed again,
And see them ere she die.
Bring flowers when her soul has fled,
And place them on her breast,
Tho’ ere their blooming freshness fade
We lay her down to rest.
[Life.]
Life at best is but a dream,
We’re launched upon a rapid stream,
Gushing from some unknown source,
Rushing swiftly on its course,
Save when amid some painful scene,
And then it flows calm and serene,
That we may gaze in mute despair
On every hated object there.
Fortune our bark and hope our chart,
With childish glee on our voy’ge we start,
The boat glides merrily o’er the wave.
But ah! there’s many a storm to brave,
And many a dang’rous reef to clear,
And rushing rapid o’er which to steer.