- I LOVE to roam in the sun-bright hours,
- And fill my basket with all fair-flowers,
- With whatever grows in garden or field,
- Whatever the hedges and woods may yield;
- The violet, harebell, and primrose pale,
- And the pure, sweet lily of the vale;
- With the purple crocus and cowslip too,
- And meadow-sweet, fresh with the morning dew;
- "Forget-me-not," with its bright blue eye,
- Looking up from its nest to the summer sky;
- And the king-cups and daisies, white and red,
- That last when the sweet spring-flowers are fled;
- Then I twine me wreaths until I am dressed
- Like a queen of May, in all I love best.
- But when I am tired of that flowery play,
- I love to list to some bird's sweet lay,
- To the stock-dove's cooing, so soft and low,
- Or the glad, fresh sound of the streamlet's flow;
- And sweet are the thoughts that come over me then,
- As I roam alone through the woodland glen;
- For I think how great must His goodness be
- Who yet makes this earth so fair to see;
- Whose is the freshness, the brightness, the bloom,
- The bird's sweet song, and the flower's perfume.
- Then I love to think of Eden's bowers,
- Her golden fruits and her fadeless flowers,
- That sprang so free on the grassy sod,
- Where our father Adam might walk with God.
- The garden He planted, oh, must it not
- Have been a delightsome and favored spot!
- Though all earth was fair in creation's morn,
- While sin and sorrow were yet unborn.
- Then I think of a day that shall surely be,
- When new earth and new heavens our eyes shall see,
- Of a land of righteousness and of peace,
- A land where sorrow and sighing shall cease,
- When that early bliss shall back be given,
- And this earth hold intercourse with heaven;
- For the Lord our God shall yet dwell with men,
- And the desert bloom like Eden again;
- And I marvel, 'mid scenes so fair to me,
- To think how much fairer earth then shall be.
- But I lay my flowery-wreathe aside
- Whenever I think how my Saviour died;
- How a crown of thorns was His love's reward,
- Earth's only offering to her Lord,
- So meekly borne on the bleeding brow
- That a crown of glory encircles now,
- To whom every crown belongs by right,
- For He is the Lord of all power and might;
- And yet His goodness endureth still,
- Our hearts with gladness and food to fill;
- And fresh waters flow, and sweet birds sing,
- And flowers, fair flowers, by our wayside spring;
- For His loving kindness endureth ever,
- And His tender mercy falleth never.
ANON.
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