‘These to His Mem’ry since He
held them Dear.’
The wise old gardener went through1
His plants to give them light and dew,2
And much he loved when green or gold3
Their leaves or calices unfold ;4
Oft wasted love on promising stem,5
And lower in their being’s scale6
The tender plants must oftenest fail7
To feel what he had felt for them.8
The few that with a swifter sense9
Were bless’d or curs’d, with silent praise,10
Would vibrate, poor dumb recompense11
For his wise guidance of their days.12
And when he pass’d away, a tear13
Stained one rooted flow’r, which wrench’d14
That petal with a pang unquench’d,15
And the winds bore it to his bier.16