44 
GARDENS, WREATHS, &'c. 
My hues no vigils dim, 
All care I cast on Him, 
Who more than faith can ask each hour to 
faith supplies. 
The Thistle warn’d me last; for, as I tore 
The intruder up, it cried, Rash man, take 
heed! 
In me thou hast thy type. Yea, pause and 
pore— 
Even as thou doth God his vineyard weed : 
Deem not each worthier plant 
For thee shall waste and want, 
Nor fright with hostile spines thy Master’s 
chosen seed. 
Then cried the garden’s host with one consent: 
Come, man, and see how, clay by day, we 
shoot. 
For every hour of rain, and sunshine lent, 
Deepen our glowing hues, and drive our 
root; 
And, as our heads we lift, 
Record each added gift, 
And bear to God’s high will, and man’s sup¬ 
port, our fruit. 
O, Leader thou of earth’s exulting quire, 
Thou with a first-born’s royal rights endued, 
