Part 2 — A THOUGHT.

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BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.

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The flower springs by the fountain-side,

And blooms its little day;

Speechless it lives the life it has,

And silent fades away.

O, I would not be like the flower,

To perish in the mould,

And leave no record of my heart,

No fond affection told.

Let beauty be to others given,

And beautiful array—

To those who, like the flower, are but

Ambitious to be gay;

I only ask the pen, the tongue,

That can the heart unfold,

That the deep beauty of the soul

Be not unsung, untold.