Tower Grove.

Oh tell me not of the lands so old     Where the Orient treasures its hills of gold,     And the rivers lie in the sun's bright rays     Forever singing the old world's praise.     Nor proudly boast of the gardens grand     That spring to earth at a king's command;     There are treasures here in the far great West     That rival the hills on the Orient's crest.     Far from the sight of the dusty town     Like a perfect gem in a golden crown,     Lies a beautiful garden vast and fair,     Where the wild birds sing in the evening air,     And the dews fall down in a silent shower     On the fragrant head of each beaming flower;     While far and near o'er the land sun-kissed,     Hangs the roseate veil of the sunset mist.     Under the shade of the western wall     There's a glimmer of roses fair and tall,     And the crimson heart of each royal flower     Gleams purely forth from its leafy bower.     There are things in this world too sweet to last,     But we catch their grace ere the bloom is past,     And the roses that die in the early morn     In the garden of memory anew are born.     The dear little pansies, quaint and fair,     Uplift their heads in the silent air;     And the gleam of the purple tinged with gold     Is as fair as the roses' velvety fold.     There are tropical plants from the Southern seas     Where the flowers sleep in the perfumed breeze;     And the scent of the orange groves fill the air     With a mystical incense rich and rare.     Like waxen buds in a leafy screen     Magnolia blooms float in a sea of green;     And their fragrance falls on the dewy air     Like the breath of the tropics richly rare.     And up from the South in the voiceless night     Steals the scent of the blossoms pure and white,     And one by one as the winds sweep by     They shrink away, from that touch, to die.     There are trees and flowers from every clime     Defying the scope of the poet's rhyme;     There are beautiful lawns where the feet could rest,     Unwilling to wander, forever blest;     There are peaceful nooks where the soul might dwell     Forever lost in a fadeless spell;     But the tomb of the man who is great and wise     Is the loveliest spot in this paradise.     And just to the south is a park so fair     That the children of God love to wander there;     And the emerald green of its winding ways     Is flecked with the gold of the sun's last rays.     There are statues, too, of the good and great,     Who point on forever to Truth's wide gate,     And the bronze and the green and the sun's red gold     Are mingled at eve in a glory untold.     Immortal the name of the man shall be     Who hath given these treasures so fair to see,     And the grace of the flowers he loves so well     The truth of his goodness forever shall tell.     But fairer than all are the deeds of love     That shine in God's temple of grace above;     And Fame on her beautiful shadowless height     Has woven his name in a glory of light.