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Show BY M. J. TANNER. Death calls the flowers, the beautiful Flowers; Our hands have planted them so. He steps his foot in our summer bower, And stops the glee of our childish hour, As the blossoms come and go. Death loves the flowers, the beautiful flowers, And the mother is bending low.- She clasps the barn in a loud embrace, And rings her bells on the clay- cold lace, Of the one she has cherished so. Death loves the flowers, the beautiful flowers, That blossom new in summer skies; The young bride bows to the cheerless call, As the early trees of autumn fall, When the pitiless storms arise. Death loves the flowers, the beautiful flowers, Said the maiden in life's best bloom; And her cheek grew paler day by day. In the morning of life she was borne away, And laid in the silent tomb. The youth steps forth in manly pride, In the strength of his young life's glow, With hope to cheer and love to to guide, The pleasant home so quickly glide, As the seasons come and go. But death strikes youth with grim delight, With a power that none can slay; We bow before his awful might.- FOR THE STRONG AND BRAVE, THE FAIR AND BRIGHT. He bears from earth away. The sheaves grow ripe in the summer glow, And the corn grown rank and tall; In the autumn of life they are bonding low, And their heads are crowned with winter's snow, As they wait for the reaper's call. But Oh! there's a life beyond the tomb, Where death never comes at all. The bowers are bright with endless bloom; The air is laden with rich perfume, And the sere leaves never fail. |