XCVII.
True friendship writes thee here
A birthday souvenir:
All blessings on thee, dear,
For this and many a year!
XCVIII.
A myth that grew within the brain
Relates that Eden's bowers
Did not, 'mid all their wealth, contain
The glory of the flowers;
Because there were no opened eyes
To take that glory in,
The sweet and innocent surprise
Which looks rebuke to sin;
For Love, and Innocence, and Truth
There made their dwelling-place,
Than which fair three immortal Youth
Required no other grace.
But when through sin the happy seat
Was lost to wretched man,
Our Lord, redeeming love to meet,
Redeeming work began:
The flowers, which have a language now,
Shall deck the weary earth,
And, while men 'neath their burdens bow,
Remind them of their birth;
And, with their vernal beauty rife,
To all the Gospel preach,
The Resurrection and the Life,
In sweet, persuasive speech.
XCIX.
Reader! if thou hast found
Thy life to reach and sound,
Some thought among these rhymes,
My school of rhymes and chimes,
_Then this, I pray thee, con:_
Somewhat to feed upon
It has--a kind of lunch,
Served with Olympian punch,
To brace thee every night,
And make thy mornings bright--
Complines at even-song
To make thee brave and strong:
SUNDAY NIGHT.
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