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Show THE FLOWERS SY THE WAY. j (Written for tho Boston Pilot by Maurica ! Casey.) I There is no human joy but hath, a parti- . ele of woe. t Xo song so blithe- but from some chord! I harsh sounds of sorrow flow: I Our proudest efforts all arc wed with: f promptings that are vain. I There is no feeling of the heart without a sens-e. of rain. Xor spHl of cheerful sunshine but wilJ ei.d in cloud or rain. i Few are the wishes wrought so fine that serve not to enthrall: We chase the brightest sunbeams and thev fadei wrier shadows fall; Oft evening's scant performance voids dawn's promise of the day: Tho schemes' we reckon perfect in their practice go away: And long longed things wc ciamor for quite other calls obey. The path our footfalls press we deem bestrewn be-strewn with thorns that tear; We sigh because too weighty seems tho burden we must benr , Yet, if we dine with Woe we may with. Job light-hearted sup. Since heartening wine- of strength cit J'ows from Sorrow's darkened cup. And often trial's stenn.ng-stones tD realms of rest lead up. Yes, mercies cluster, like fair flowers, where'er our footsteps tread. They brighten vale and knoll and nook. like blooms o'er uplands snreml; AVe murmur at the obstacles we meet a. we advance. . 1 We brood upon afflictions tnl their nam- i per we enhance While honey-heait.-d bkssir.gs oft escape our partial glance. . Pathless, our way. on either hand, sweet-breathing sweet-breathing b'.ossoms gem. , Xo shadow east by pine of crog their cheerful glow can dim; O God of Beauty: teach mine eyes to i mark the price!? flowers f i Whcse smiles can change lire steree j "P'.ts to rose-enwreathed bower " Thy .laily mercies that spring up to cr;or this world of curs! f |