We see the human flowers cut down, the kindred ones of home,
Whose garden was the loving heart, where storm clouds seldom come,
Making within that temple fair, a wilderness of woes,
A desert drear of that which once could “blossom as the Rose.”
We see the clasping chains unloose, and sever link by link,
Till hope turns shudderingly away, from sorrow’s fearful brink,
The band of sweet relationship, of close unwoven ties,
Is broken here—to reunite forever in the skies.
But memory with her guardian care, hath linger’d o’er each scene,
To paint them on the heart again when long years intervene.