Like a loving mother her griefs are born,
Lest her tender nurslings should die ere morn,
And the sweet dew falls in each open cup,
Till the eyes of morn are lifted up;
We unfold our leaves to the sun's bright face,
And close them up at the night's embrace.

Dost thou ask if grief comes creeping across,
From the poplar bough to the dark green moss?
No, round us the sunbeams smile and glow,
Round us the streamlets dance and flow,
And the zephyr comes with its gentle breeze,
To sigh out its life in the young green trees,
And then from the beds where the flowers grow,
Rises a melody soft and low.

And the glorious rose with her flushing face,
And the fuschia with her form of grace,
The balsam bright, and the lupin's crest,
That weaves a roof for the firefly's nest;
The myrtle clusters, and dahlia tall,
The jessamine fairest among them all;
And the tremulous lips of the lily's bell,
Join in the music we love so well."

"But startle ye not when the tempests blow?
Have you no dread of a wily foe?
Do you not tremble, when the serpents hiss
Mid leaves that the zephyr alone should kiss?