There are flow'rets down in the valley low, 

And over the mountain side, 

Which were never praised by human voice, 

Nor by human eye descried.

Yet as sweet as the breath of the royal rose

Is the perfume they exhale; 

And why they bloom and where they bloom

The good Lord knoweth well.












In the fifteenth century James Baynham, a reputable citizen of London, when chained to the stake, embraced the fagots, and said: "O ye papists, behold! ye look for miracles; here now you see a miracle; for in this fire I feel no more pain than if I were in bed; for it is sweet to me as a bed of roses."--Blanchard's Book of Martyrs, p. 207.   1862 MEC, MIRP 65


 Through life's desert, lone and weary,

Scattered roses cheer the way;

On a pathway, dark and dreary,

Gladdening falls the sunbeam's ray.

Friends those gentle flowers are flinging-

Love's bright ray the bosom warms-

Vines their tendrils closely clinging,

Are not rudely torn by storms.  

Oh! What sweet emotions waken-

Strike the soul's harp-strings divine,

When with confidence unshaken

Hearts responsive beat to thine!

Many a grief, its tears revealing-

Many a pang that else might rend,

'Reft of half its sting, is healing

By this sacred balm-a friend. 

1855 ARS, HHHH 103