630 M. LOUISA CHIT WOOD. [1850-60. Oh ! like all things bright and joyous, Was that simple, earnest lay. And of love a plenteous harvest, Shed about the poet's way. Knelt she in the golden twilight. With the dews upon her hair. And with tearful eyes to heaven. Breathed her thankfulness in prayer. " If a pilgrim hath been shadowed By the tree that I have nursed ; If a cup of clear cold water I have raised to lips athirst ; If I've planted one sweet flower By an else too barren way; If I've whispered in the midnight One sweet word to tell of day ; " If in one poor bleeding bosom I a woe-swept chord have stilled ; If a dark and restless spirit I with hope of heaven have filled ; If I've made for life's hard battle One faint heart grow brave and strong ;- Then, my God, I thank thee, bless thee. For the precious gift of song." THE GRAVES OF THE FLOWERS. The woods are full of tiny graves. The sweet graves of the flowers, That sprang in every sheltered nook, Amid the Spring-time hours. The buttercup lies on the slope Where first the sunlight fell ; The violet sleeps beside the rill. The daisy in the dell. Upon no stone is carved the name Of April's children fair ; They perished when the sky was bright, And gentle was the air. To the soft kisses of the breeze They held, half-trembling, up. Full many a small transparent urn And honey-laden cup. But when the roses budded out, In summer's balmy hours, No little mound was made to tell Where slept the gentle flowers. Those early flowers — they seem to me Like little children sweet. Who smile a moment on our path. Then perish at our feet. We know they cannot linger, e'en In love's most fond embrace ; We see the mark of Paradise Meek shining from their face ; And soon their tiny graves are made. But years go cifcling by. And not a stone can tell us where The little children lie. But some are sleeping on the hill, Beneath the emerald grass. Where gay birds soaring to the sky. Pause singing as they pass ; And many in the church-yard sleep. And many in the dell, And many near the cottage homes Of those who loved them well. Oh, many an Indian baby lies In forest old and grand ; Its rustic playthings fallen from The mouldering little hand ; And flowers have sprung, and flowers have died. Upon its silent breast ; — Their nameless graves are side by side : None mark them as they rest. Yet, in each grassy, humble mound. Where sleeping childhood lies, A bud is bursting into bloom — A blossom for the skies. But, ah I the flowers, the April flowers ! Their graves are small and low ; We know they lie in wood-land bowers, And more we cannot know.
