For wrongs done them in life atone?

Better the flower that smooths the thorns

On earthly pathway found,

Than that which uselessly adorns

The bier or silent mound.

And neither tear nor floral token

Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.

Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,

While yet their eyes discern;

Why waste their fragrance on the dead

Who no fond smile return?

The heaving breast with sorrow aches,

Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.

 Mother.—Alpha and Omega.

Mother! Mother!

The startled cry of childish fright

Rang through the silence of the night,

As but the mother's fond caress

Could soothe its infantile distress;

And the mother answered, with loving stroke

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