Bidd'st thou 'mid parching sands the flow'ret meek
Strike its frail root, and raise its tinted cheek,
And the slight pine defy the arctic snow,
That even the sceptic's frozen eye may see
On Nature's beauteous page, what lines she writes of Thee.!
xiii.
What groups, at sabbath morn, were hither led!
Dejected men, with disappointed frown,
Spoil'd youths, the parents' darling and their dread,
From castles in the air hurl'd ruthless down,
The sea-bronz'd mariner, the warrior brave,
The keen gold-gatherer, grasping as the grave;—
Oft, 'mid these mouldering walls, which nettles crown,
Stern breasts have lock'd their purpose and been still,
And contrite spirits knelt, to learn their Maker's will.
xiv.
Here, in his surplice white, the pastor stood,—
A holy man, of countenance serene,
Who, 'mid the quaking earth, or fiery flood,
Unmov'd, in truth's own panoply, had been
A fair example of his own pure creed,—
Patient of error, pitiful to need,
Persuasive wisdom in his thoughtful mien,
And in that Teacher's heavenly meekness blest,
Who lav'd his followers' feet with towel-girded vest.
