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To watch the plants of reason as they rise;
Hang o'er your clusters, like the bending vine,
And teach the infant tendril where to twine;
Guard from the mildew's taint, the frost severe,
Repel the noxious weed that ventures near;
Lead the young leaves to lift their drooping heads,
And drink the purest dew, that evening sheds;
Curb the aspiring shoots that mount too high,
Lest in the blast the forward hope should die;
To turn the clear stream to the spreading root,
Catch the first promise of a grateful fruit;
Bind the young buds, whose stalks the winds have riven,
And prune the boughs, and point their way to heaven.
But who can paint the thrill of extacy,
With which a mother meets her babes on high?
Perchance the tempest's rage, with furious strife,
Had driven them darkly o'er the sea of life;
Perchance the shafts of death, that ceaseless rove,
Had early pierc'd the brittle band of love;
Perchance the wide-stretch'd zone, or Ocean waves,
Had roll'd between their long-divided graves;
Now safely scap'd from earth's delusive shore,
Now join'd in glory to divide no more,
What mortal hand can touch that raptur'd string,
Whose high-rais'd tones salute th' Eternal King?
