His boughs make music of the winter air, How doth his patient strength the rude March wind Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, And win the soil, that fain would be unkind, To swell his revenues with proud increase! So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales, The inspiring earth; - how otherwise avails So every year that falls with noiseless flake Should fill old scars up on the stormward side, And make hoar age revered for age's sake, Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, So between earth and heaven stand simply great, That these shall seem but their attendants both; For nature's forces with obedient zeal Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will; As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still. Lord! all thy works are lessons, each contains Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains, Delving within thy grace an eyeless mole ? Make me the least of thy Dodona-grove, Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. AMBROSE. NEVER, Surely, was holier man Than Ambrose, since the world began, With diet spare and raiment thin, He shielded himself from the father of sin; With bed of iron and scourgings oft, His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. Through earnest prayer and watchings long At last he builded a perfect faith, Fenced round about with The Lord thus saith ; To himself he fitted the doorway's size, Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth So shining a face, and the good man thought, So he sat himself by the young man's side, And the state of his soul with questions tried; But the heart of the stranger was hardened indeed, And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Such face in front of so narrow a mind. "As each beholds in cloud and fire The shape that answers his own desire, So each," said the youth, "in the Law shall find The figure and features of his mind; And to each in his mercy hath God allowed The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal And holy wrath for the young man's weal: I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin Now there bubbled beside them, where they stood, A fountain of waters sweet and good; The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here! |