BRING flowers for the wearied one,
The wearied one of pain;
Bright flowers from the glorious sun,
Will give her joy again.
But, oh! seek them not from gardens,
Nor from the gay parterre,
Wander far into the woodlands,
For blossoms hiding there.
Bring her flowers from the mountains,
And wildlings from the hills,
From the happy sparkling fountains,
And from the quiet rills.
And of the sweet “Forget-me-not,”
Be sure your lap to fill,
‘Twill tell her, though so hard her lot,
Of One that loveth still.
If there breathes sweetness in the air,
Go trace it to its source,
Thou’lt find the lowly violet there,
Bent o’er the streamlet’s course.
And thence the primrose thou must bring,
With pallid tranquil face,
So quietly acknowledging
A deep supporting grace.
And lilies, lilies of the vale,
With fragrant snowy bells;—
Oh, what a rare and soothing tale
The valley lily tells!
Go gather them, and take them her,
Those little gems of love;
With silver voice to chime to her
Of One that cares above.
And bring the little daisy,
It quietly doth bloom
Where the sun his parting rays, aye
Sheds on the grassy tomb.
Bring the gold and purple pansy,
That whispereth of peace;
The flower, in sweetest fancy,
Love calls her own Heart’s Ease.
Bring the woodbine, the pale woodbine,
And the blue bell of the heath,
And from the forest oak untwine
The broad, gloss’d ivy wreath.
And bring that gentle, bright-eyed flower
Which smiles from out its thorn,
‘Twill tell her that affliction’s hour
Can cheerfully be borne.
And go seek the lovely snowdrop,—
Ah, pity! it is gone;
A thing too fragile far to stop,
When spring’s first ray hath shone.
But tell her that this beauteous gem,
Of fair and spotless form,
Like Faith, bows on its slender stem,
And smileth to the storm!
But bring her not that dark, dark flower,
The deadly, blue nightshade,
For oh! beneath its noxious power
The purest blossoms fade.
And yet—ah, yes—go bring it here,
Though it hath deadly breath;
What flower should her heart so cheer,
As that which speaks of death?
So hasten to the woods away,
To valleys and to dells;
But bring not from the gardens gay
Their bright and showy bells.
Seek from the woodlands hidden flowers,
For the wearied one of pain;
They’ll sing to her of fadeless bowers,
Where grief comes not again.
© Caroline W. Leakey