THE POETRY OP FLOW ERS. 865 
The triple cell, the two-fold seed, 
A ceaseless treasure-house decreed, 
Whence aye thy race may grow, 
As from creation they have grown, 
While spring shall weave her flowery crown, 
Or vernal breezes blow; 
Who forms thee thus, with unseen hand? 
Who at creation gave command, 
And will’d thee thus to be ; 
And keeps thee still in being, through 
Age after age revolving! Who 
But the great God is he? 
Omnipotent, to work his will; 
Wise, who contrives each part to fill 
The post to each assign’d; 
Still provident, with sleepless care, 
To keep; to make thee sweet and fair 
For man’s enjoyment—kind! 
“ There is no God,” the senseless say:— 
“ O God! why cast’st thou us away ?” 
Of feeble faith and frail, 
The mourner breathes his anxious thought , 
By thee a better lesson taught, 
Sweet lily of the vale! 
Yes, He who made and fosters thee, 
In reason’s eye perforce must be 
01 majesty divine 
