O weary child of toil and care,
Trembling at every cloud that lowers,
Come and behold how passing fair
Thy God hath made the flowers.
From every hillside's sunny slope,
From every forest's leafy shade
The flowers, sweet messengers of hope,
Bid thee "Be not afraid."
The windflower blooms in yonder bower
All heedless of to-morrow's storm,
Nor trembles for the coming shower
The lily's stately form.
No busy shuttle plied to deck
With sunset tints the blushing rose,
And little does the harebell reck
Of toil and all its woes.
The water-lily, pure and white,
Floats idle on the summer stream,
Seeming almost too fair and bright
For aught but Poet's dream.
The gorgeous tulip, though arrayed
In gold and gems, knows naught of care,
The violet in the mossy glade
Of labour has no share.
They toil not—yet the lily's dyes
Phoenicean fabrics far surpass,
Nor India's rarest gem out-vies
The little blue-eyed grass.
For God's own hand hath clothed the flowers
With fairy form and rainbow hue,
Hath nurtured them with summer showers
And watered them with dew.
To-day, a thousand blossoms fair,
From sunny slope and sheltered glade,
With grateful incense fill the air—
To-morrow they shall fade.
But thou shalt live when sinks in night
Yon glorious sun, and shall not He
Who hath the flowers so richly dight,
Much rather care for thee?
O, faithless murmurer, thou may'st read
A lesson in the lowly sod,
Heaven will supply thine utmost need,
Fear not, but trust in God.
1865.