Mirrors of morn Whence the dewdrop is born, Soft tints of the rainbow and skies— Sisters of song, What a shadowy throng Around you in memory rise! Far do ye flee, From your green bowers free, Fair floral apostles of love, Sweetly to shed Fragrance fresh round the dead, And breath of the living above. Flowers for the brave— Monarch, or slave Whose heart wore its grief, and is still; Flowers for the kind, Aye the Christians who bind Wreaths for the triumphs o'er ill.
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