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SEED FOR HEAVEN.
Methought her warning voice, who long
'Neath the cold sods had slept,
Spake forth from every rushing wave
That on resistless swept;
Methought a teardrop, like her own,
Fell from the gathering cloud,
That round the slowly-rising moon
Had wreath'd its silver shroud;
Methought the searching eye of God
Flamed in his secret soul,
And down the proud man bow'd, with tears,
To own its strong control:
The Saviour's lowly yoke he took,
His flinty heart was riven,
And so the seed his mother sow'd
Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven.
