Voice of Flowers/The Winter Hyacinth
THE WINTER HYACINTH.
How beautiful thou art, my winter flower!
Day after day thy mesh of slender roots,
That mid the water wrought their busy way,
I've watch'd intently through the chrystal vase
That deck'd my mantel-piece.
Then, bursting forth,
Came leaves, and swelling buds, and floral bells,
Replete with fragrance: while thy graceful form,
Fair Hyacinth, attracted every eye,
And many a phrase of admiration woke,
As from a lover's lip;—while unto me
Thou wert as a companion, skill'd to smile
All loneliness away.
But now—alas!
I mark the plague-spot stealing o'er thy brow,
And know that thou must die.
In thy brief space,
Say—did thine inmost soul remember Him
Of whom thy rare and pencill'd beauty spake
So tenderly to us? And was thy breath
A pure and sweet ascription to His praise?
We trust it was; for those who teach of heaven
Should have its spirit too.
Yet, if like us,
Poor erring ones, thou e'er didst leave undone
What 'twas the duty of thy life to do,
Haste, and repent thee! for the time is short—
The Spoiler cometh!
Drooping on the stem,
Methought it meekly folded its faint leaves
For the last, voiceless prayer; while unto me
A gush of fragrance was its benison.
At morn I came. No more its bosom glow'd;
A heavy sleep hung o'er its leaden eyes,—
And dews like funeral tears.
Oh, Friend! whose gift
Was the dark bulb that veil'd this glorious flower,
And unto whom, in gratitude, I turn'd,
As its rich charms develop'd—come with me,
And let us gather from its wither'd lips
Some lingering sigh of wisdom.
If we blend
True love to God with every kindly deed
Unto our fellow man, and steadfast stand
At duty's post, still inly bow'd, as those
Who feel the time is short—may we not wait
For sleep's last angel, full of placid trust,
Like this sweet, folded flower?