To Ralph

THIS evening hour, the Sabbath eve,The sun just sinking in the west,A fadeless wreath of thought I'd weaveFor thee, before I go to rest;And I would gather only thoseOf purest tint and perfume sweet,The violet, lily, and the rose,To make it, precious one, complete.

The violet so meek and low,Of modesty the fairest type;Be thus, wherever thou mayst go,"If thou wouldst be for heaven ripe;The lily, purity's own hue,Springing so lovely from the earth,It breathes a prayer forever new,An emblem of a higher birth.

The rose, the queen of all the flowers,Who can describe or tell its worth?Transplanted here from Eden's bowersSubduing grief, alike our mirth;From this sweet gem my child may learnLove's own deep incense to distill;Let now thy heart with rapture burn,Thy heart, to do thy Maker's will.

And with these thoughts, flowers I would bind,The mountain laurel round thy brow,Where the dear Saviour's cross was signed—That solemn hour remember'st thou?Go forth and touch His outspread hand,Renew those vows we for thee made,And then this spirit will expandThy soul; to this let me persuade.

Too soon the rosy crown of youth,Too soon will vanish, flee away;Resolve to walk steadfast in truth,On this, thy sixteenth natal day;A birth from sin, temptation free,And power to triumph, lest thou fall;And more, my child, I'd ask for thee,From Him who reigneth o'er us all.