The rose unsullied lives and dies
As do the brave, the true, the wise.
And though in life one oft receives
A pang that sorely, sadly grieves,
'Tis sweet to know that roses bloom
Midst winds and rain and thorns and gloom.
From out their bosoms pure as snow,
The lilies of the valley grow;
Their leaves are still; their heads they bow,
As if to heaven they make a vow.
Since from the heart the actions grow,
A duty to ourselves we owe,
To do the right, and that in love,
Though fading here to bloom above.
The rose adds beauty to her thorns;
The lily pastures green adorns;
The world conceals its faults to please,
While innocence and lilies abound in the leas.
Aromas from these flowers unite,
And lure our prayers to yonder height,
Where mingling in sweet bliss and praise—
Enriching heaven through endless days.
Bloom on, bloom on, thou lily pale,
In meadow green and fertile vale;
Thine own soft colors give to thee
A tender look of modesty.
