Here hyacinths of heavenly blue, shook their rich tresses to the morn.

There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.

Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.

Eagle of flowers! I see thee stand, And on the sun's noon-glory gaze; With eye like his, thy lids expand, And fringe their disk with golden rays: Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there, Light is thy element, thy dwelling air, Thy prospect heaven.

Songs of praise the angels sang, Heav'n with alleluias rang, when creation was begun, when God spoke and it was done.

To-morrow — oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed; and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: "To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.