The Quaker Flower

I have a little Quaker flower,
That hath a kind of spirit power
To hold me captive, hour by hour,
In pleasant musing lost;
'T was plucked for me in distant land,
And by another's friendly hand,
From turf where I may never stand;
Then yon wild ocean crossed.

A modest foreigner it came,
Bearing a sweet, but humble name;
Yet worthy of a glorious fame
Among the sons of men;
For O the pretty stranger grew:
It drank the ether and the dew,
And from light received its hue
Upon the grave of PENN!

It sprang from out that hallowed ground,
Unclosed its eye, and smiled around,
Upon the verdure of the mound,
Where WILLIAM's ashes rest;
Where low the dust in quiet lies
Of him, among the good and wise
On earth, so meeks, and in the skies
So high among the blest.

And had my flower a living root,
Or seed wherefrom a germ might shoot
For one young plant to be the fruit
Of that small vital part,
Fair PENN-SYLVANIA, it should be,
My friendly offering made to thee—
Set, to thy father's memory,
On thy kind Quaker heart.

But, ah! my precious flower is dead:
The snow-white sheet beneath its head,
And on its tender bosom spread,
Shows that its life is o'er:
And though each floweret of the gem,
And every leaf, is on the sten,
I cannot spare thee one of them,
Because there 'll grow no more.

I therefore bid my fancy weave
This simple wreath, which thou'lt receive
In lieu thereof; and thence believe
My fervent wish to be,
That Heaven, to overflowing still,
With purest bliss thy cup may fill,
And guard thee safe from every ill,
Whilst thou rememberest me!