HYMN. WHO IS IT, FATHER? "Dear Father," said an artless child, As gazing on the wood-flowers wild,"Have these stems life, these buds the pow'r, T' unfold themselves in spring's bland hour? Do these plants think, dear Father, say? Do they design to be thus gay? Or dip their leaves in beauteous dye, "Why no, my child, they're senseless all; "But, Father, still they grow and grow; "My dearest child, look ye above, From thence is every thing we love!" "O," said the child, " 't is now all plain, You mean the sunshine and the rain." "Not so, sweet child, for cloud and sun, Are like the plants you gaze upon, Without a thought, without a mind, And senseless as the passing wind!" "But still, dear sir, these flowers have life,- "Then listen, child :- Beyond the cloud, Shapes forth the bud and tints each flow'r, But why, my child, th' assenting nod? "O, yes, 't is God." |