SWEET flowers upon my mother's grave,
Ye glad my eye and heart;
For ye were always her delight,
And of her life, a part.
No roses ever bloomed like hers
No lilies were so sweet;
And pansy, jasmine, mignionette,
Ran riot, at her feet.
She treads a fairer garden mow;
The Paradise of God:
And, walks, with reverent step, and slow,
Where Jesu's feet have trod;
Reclines, beside the crystal streams,
On banks of asphodel;
And, with the throng of saints, delights,
The Saviour's love, to tell.
Sweet flowers, to which, the Altar, first,
Its consecration, lent;
By filial hands, in grateful love,
So beautifully blent;
Ye mind me of my mother's care,
Which overflowed on me;
And, on my children, shed the grace,
Of its benignity.
Sweet mother, these Autumnal leaves,
With hectic beauty, bright,
Tell how, through long and lingering years,
You faded on our sight;
And, then, they tell, of that bright time,
When God, His saints shall bring;
And heaven's own beauty all, be thine--
The Resurrection Spring.
ALL SAINTS DAY, 1858.