704 



THE SOUTHERN PLANTER. 



OiTi 



From ihe Southern Homestead. 

 Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful. 



Scatter the germs of the beautiful ! 



By the ATay-side let them fall, 

 That the rose may spring by the cottage gate, 



And the vine on the garden wall ; 

 Cover the rough and the rude of earth 



With a veil of leaves and flowers, 

 And mark with the opening bud and cup 



The march of summer hoars. 



Scatter the germs of the beautiful 



In the holy shrine of home ; 

 Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful 

 there 



In their loveliest lus|re come; 

 Leave not a trace of deformity 



In the temple of the heart, 

 But gather about it? hearth the gems 



Of Nature and of Art. 



Scatter the germs of the beautiful 



In the depths of the human soul, 

 They shall bud and blossom, and bear the fruit. 



While the enaless ages roil; 

 Plant with the flowers of charity 



The portals of the tomb, 

 And the fair and the pure about thy path 



In Paradise shall bloom. 



Bless God for Eain. 



" Bless God for rain V the good man said. 



And wiped away a grateful tear; 

 That we may have our daily bread. 



He drops a shower upon us here. 

 Our Father! thou who dwell'st in Heaven, 



We thank thee for the pearly shower! 

 The blessed present thou has given 



To man, and beast, and bird, and flower. 



The dusty earth, Avlth lips apart. 



Looked up where rolled an orb of flame 

 As though a prayer came from its heart 



For rain to come ; and lo, it came ! 

 The Indian corn with silken plume, 



And tiny pitchers with flowers fllled, 

 Send up their praise of sweet perfume. 



For precious drops the clouds distilled. 



The modest grass is fresh and green ; 



The brooklet swells its song again ; 

 Methinks an angel's wing is seen 



In every cloud that brings us rain, , 

 There is a rainbov/ in the sky, 



Upon the arch where tempests trod ; 

 God wrote it ere the world was dr^' — 



It is the autograph of God. 



Up where the heavy thunders rolled, 

 ^ And clouds of fire were swept along, 



The sun rides in a car of gold. 



And soaring larks dissolve in song. 



The rills that gush from mountains rude, 

 Flow trickling to the verdant base — 



Just like the tears of gratitude 



That often stain a good man's face. 



Great King of Peace, deign now to bless 



The windows of the sky un})ar ; 

 Shower down the rain of"'Righteousness, 



And wash away the stain of^Var ; 

 And let the radiant boAv of LoW 



In beauty mark the moral sky, 

 Like that fair sign unrolled above, 



But not like it to fade and die. 



Children. 



Come to me, ye children ! 



For I hear you at your play, 

 And the questions that perplexed me 

 Have vanished quite away. 



Ye open the Eastern windows. 



That look towards the sun, 

 Where thoughts are singing swallows, 



And the brooks of morning run. 



In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 

 In your thouglits the brooklet's flov/. 



But in mine is the wind of Autumn 

 xVnd the first fail of the snow. 



Ah ! what would the world be to us 



If the children v»'ere no more? 

 We should dread the desert behind us 



Vforse than the dark before. 



Wha,t the leaves are to the forest, 



With the light and air for food, 

 Ere their sweet and tender juices 



Have been hardened into wood. ' 



That to the world are children ; 



Through them it feels the glow 

 Of a brighter and sunnier climate 



Than reaches the trunks below. 



Come to me, ye children ! 



And w^hisper in my ear 

 'What the birds and the wind are singing 

 In your sunny atmosphere. 



For what are all our contrivings. 



And the wisdom of our books, 

 When compared vrith your caresses, 



And the gladness of your looks ? 



Ye are better than all the ballads 



That ever were sung or said ; 

 For ye are living poems, 



And all the rest are dead. 



Longfellow. 



