Yon lowly shrub that skirts the mountain way —
I passed it all the Summer, day by day;
Nor heeded it, though fair enough it grew
Mid plant and flower offered to the view;
For all alike seemed beautiful and gay
In the bright sunshine of the Summer's day.
King Winter comes and scatters o'er the land
Hoar frost and icicles with generous hand;
He builds his frosty palace on the hill
Where stands the shrub, hard by a frozen rill.
Then came the thought, the plant he noted there
Might yet be made more beautiful and fair.
The background chosen is a field of snow;
With frosty brush he touches leaf and bough
In rainbow tints, and colors bright and gold —
What varied hues his cunning strokes unfold
Till stands it there in richer splendor clad,
Than Solomon in all his glory had.
Who now could overlook that charming plant?
Who could approach, and in his heart not want
To gaze enraptured on the change unsought
In common shrub, by Winter's pencil wrought?
Thus oft of one who seems of common mould
No note we take; within his breast the gold
Of character is locked from human view;
In Spring's balm clime and Summer's ease he grew —
His face all smiles, his heart one merry chime
From morn to night. — 'Tis yet his summer time.
II
But Winter comes, — and bitter is the hour;
The Sun grows dim, the skies begin to lower;
The thunder-clouds roll fast athwart the sky —
Prepare thy soul for wrathful tempest nigh!
Now fierce assail the blasts of suffering rude;
The biting frost of Man's ingratitude;
From Slander's leaden clouds each fiery dart
Speeds, deadly aimed at his devoted heart:
'Twould seem the storm, as on his ruin bent,
On him alone its gathered fury spent.
Before such stress the meaner soul might cower;
Ne'er flinches he; — with noble Christian power
He bears the storm of wrong, and all the pain,
For love of Him, the suffering Nazarene.
As woe's dark form, which on her ceaseless frowned,
The peerless Virgin, Queen of Martyrs crowned;
So suffering has evoked his latent worth,
And from the gold removed the dross of earth.
Thus comes he forth ennobled from the storm —
Thus takes he on a new and glorious form,
The form of Christ — 'tis viewed in every line —
His countenance less human than divine.
Wise Providence it was that limned the face,
And chose the storm to add each nobler grace.
Tho' noted not before the Winter came,
Deserves he now a Christian hero's name.
How high he towers o'er those who on him trod,
The admired of men, of angels, and of God!
I passed it all the Summer, day by day;
Nor heeded it, though fair enough it grew
Mid plant and flower offered to the view;
For all alike seemed beautiful and gay
In the bright sunshine of the Summer's day.
King Winter comes and scatters o'er the land
Hoar frost and icicles with generous hand;
He builds his frosty palace on the hill
Where stands the shrub, hard by a frozen rill.
Then came the thought, the plant he noted there
Might yet be made more beautiful and fair.
The background chosen is a field of snow;
With frosty brush he touches leaf and bough
In rainbow tints, and colors bright and gold —
What varied hues his cunning strokes unfold
Till stands it there in richer splendor clad,
Than Solomon in all his glory had.
Who now could overlook that charming plant?
Who could approach, and in his heart not want
To gaze enraptured on the change unsought
In common shrub, by Winter's pencil wrought?
Thus oft of one who seems of common mould
No note we take; within his breast the gold
Of character is locked from human view;
In Spring's balm clime and Summer's ease he grew —
His face all smiles, his heart one merry chime
From morn to night. — 'Tis yet his summer time.
II
But Winter comes, — and bitter is the hour;
The Sun grows dim, the skies begin to lower;
The thunder-clouds roll fast athwart the sky —
Prepare thy soul for wrathful tempest nigh!
Now fierce assail the blasts of suffering rude;
The biting frost of Man's ingratitude;
From Slander's leaden clouds each fiery dart
Speeds, deadly aimed at his devoted heart:
'Twould seem the storm, as on his ruin bent,
On him alone its gathered fury spent.
Before such stress the meaner soul might cower;
Ne'er flinches he; — with noble Christian power
He bears the storm of wrong, and all the pain,
For love of Him, the suffering Nazarene.
As woe's dark form, which on her ceaseless frowned,
The peerless Virgin, Queen of Martyrs crowned;
So suffering has evoked his latent worth,
And from the gold removed the dross of earth.
Thus comes he forth ennobled from the storm —
Thus takes he on a new and glorious form,
The form of Christ — 'tis viewed in every line —
His countenance less human than divine.
Wise Providence it was that limned the face,
And chose the storm to add each nobler grace.
Tho' noted not before the Winter came,
Deserves he now a Christian hero's name.
How high he towers o'er those who on him trod,
The admired of men, of angels, and of God!