Flowers, soft and virgin-white,
Meant for the Bride's delight,
May deck the pall where love in tears must kneel.
Flowers are they, blossoms still,
Born of Benignant Will,
Not of the Sphingian Fate, which hath no heed
For human smiles or tears;
The long-revolving years
Have brought humanity a happier creed.
Prince-Sire of the young dead,
Mother whose comely head
Is bowed above him in so bitter grief;
Betrothed one, and bereaved,
Queen who so oft hath grieved,--
Ye all were nurtured in this blest belief.
Hence is there comfort still,
In a whole land's good-will,
In hope that pallid spectre shall not slay.
The unwelcome hand of Death
Closes on that white wreath;
But there is that Death cannot take away!
[Footnote 1: See Cartoon, "_England, Home, and Beauty!_" p. 295,
December 19, 1891.]
* * * * *
AT MRS. RAM'S.--They were talking of Mr. JOHN MORLEY.
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