40 GARDENS, WREATHS, &e 
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, day 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 support, our fruit 
O Leader thou of earth’s exulting quire, 
Thou with a first-born’s royal rights endued, 
Wilt thou alone be dumb? alone desire 
Renew’d the gifts so oft in vain renew’d? 
Then sicken, fret, and pine, 
As on thy head they shine, 
And wither ’mid the bliss of boundless plenitude ? 
Oh, come! and, as thy due, our concert lead. 
Glory to him, the Lord of life and light, 
Who nursed our tender leaf, our colours spread, 
And gave thy body mind, the first-born’s right, 
By which thy flight may cleave 
The starry pole, and leave 
Thy younger mates below in death’s unbroken night 
