THE FALLEN TREE. "Delivered unto death." Tree that hast weathered many a blast, No more shalt thou, with graceful ease, Whate'er the cause, cruel the blow But wherefore muse upon thy state? Unseen the hand which deals the blow, The tender child, like some fair flower, Not beauty, wisdom, rank, or worth, Can interpose a brief delay, Yet not as trees we fall and die, The Lord, to save us from the doom, Suffered no ravage from decay, Till thrice the sun brought round the day, Hell and the grave are now no more, The mouldering fragments of the tomb Fresh life and beauty shall assume, And rise in glory to adore The triumphs of his love and power. CULTURE OF THE SOUL. "Break up thy fallow land." The sin so small We scarce can think it is a sin at all Will, if let go, Become at last a mighty world of woe, Chance-dropt at times, of some pernicious weed, Will strangle all fair flowers which grow around : And exercise betimes a watchful care; Grudge not the toil, Search well thy heart, and throughly cleanse the soil; Each lusty vice Cut off at once at any sacrifice ; |