A GROUP OF FLOWERS
THREE OF WHICH ARE FADED
A little upstart full of joy/ And mischief, is the first-born boy;/ With busy fingers – busier feet, – / A studied mien, and figure neat/ And if he choose “dear Harry” can,/ Be quite a little gentleman,/ But oh! he needs a powerful arm,/ To guard his youthful life from harm./ Do Thou, blest Saviour (kind Thou art)/ Control, renew, and cleanse his heart;/ That he may find his truest joy,/ To be Thy own, Thy little boy.
Two lovely little girls there were,/ But oh! not all a Mother’s care,/ Nor Father’s fondness could detain,/ Those babes in this sad world of pain,/ The first, a gentle timid child,/ With flaxen hair and eye so mild;/ Like some sweet voilet in its bloom,/ Hides shrinking from the glare of noon,/ “Rosy” was wont to hide her face,/ So full of modesty and grace;/ Alas! the worm was at the root,/ The blossom never brought forth fruit;/ But snatched away before its prime,/ It blooms in Eden’s fairer clime.
And “Fanny”! how can I portray,/ Thee, beauteous creature of a day:-/ Thy cheeks – the blushing tints of even,/ That seem to us, to breathe of heaven./ And then, those bright blue laughing eyes,/ That might have rivall’d azure skies;/ All light and gladsome as the spring,/ Was this sweet, merry, fairy thing;/ Her smile was like a sunbeam’s glow,/ Shedding a light on all below./ And with her locks of curly hair,/ “Oh! she was very very fair!”-/ But one pass’d by with icy breath,/ And laid her low and cold in death./ These babes they lived their Mother’s pride,/ And now they’re sleeping side by side.
Methinks another shell I see;/ Oh surely there can not be three, / Yea! let the great man boast of fame,/ This little babe without a name/ Shall, waking from the dust, arise,/ To wear a crown above the skies./ Thrice happy child! tho’ here in gloom,/ Thy cradle is the silent tomb;/ Tho’ never on thy Mother’s breast/ Did’st thou in peaceful slumber rest;/ Yet – never, never, did’st thou know/ The sorrows of this world below:/ Thy little bosom never heaved,/ For sin and woe, it never grieved,/ And when thy eyes first ope fair boy,/ ‘Twill be to feast on endless joy.
And now, one more – a lovely lily,/ Our own, our darling little Willie-/ As placid as the moonbeam’s glow,/ As pure and white as driven snow:/ With rounded limbs, and forehead high,/ And ah: there’s depth in that blue eye./ Oh! Thou who lov’st the little one,/ Now mark and seal him for Thine own,/ And may this group of lovely flowers/ United be in brighter bowers-/ That so together, hand in hand,/ A happy, happy little band,/ They’ll bow before Thy great white throne,/ And sparkle in thy radiant crown.
Written for Mrs. Spencer, New Year’s Day, 1849