The heart has tendrils like the vine,
Which round another's bosom twine,
Outspringing from the living tree
Of deeply-planted sympathy;
Whose flowers are hope, its fruits are bliss,
Beneficence its harvest is.
There are some bosoms dark and drear,
Which an unwater'd desert are;
Yet there a curious eye may trace
Some smiling spot, some verdant place,
Where little flowers, the weeds between,
Spend their soft fragrance all unseen.
Despise them not-for wisdom's toil
Has ne'er disturb'd that stubborn soil:
Yet care and culture might have brought
The ore of truth from mines of thought;
And fancy's fairest flowers had bloom'd
Where truth and fancy lie entomb'd.
Insult him not-his blackest crime
May, in his Maker's eye sublime,
In spite of all thy pride, be less
Than e'en thy daily waywardness;
Than many a sin and many a stain
Forgotten-and impress'd again.
There is in every human heart
Some not completely barren part,
Where seeds of truth and love might grow,
And flowers of generous virtue blow:
To plant, to watch, to water there-
This, as our duty, be our care!
And sweet it is the growth to trace,
Of worth, of intellect, of grace,
In bosoms where our labours first
Bid the young seed of spring-time burst,
And lead it on from hour to hour,
To ripen into perfect flower.
Hast thou e'er seen a garden clad
In all the robes that Eden had-
Or vale o'erspread with streams and trees,
A paradise of mysteries-
Plains with green hills adorning them,
Like jewels in a diadem?
These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills,
Which beauty gilds and music fills,
Were once but deserts; culture's hand
Has scatter'd verdure o'er the land,
And smiles and fragrance rule serene,
Where barren wilds usurp'd the scene.
And such is man. A soil which breeds
Or sweetest flowers or vilest weeds;
Flowers lovely as the morning's light,
Weeds deadly as the aconite;
Just as his heart is train'd to bear
The pois'nous weed, or flow'ret fair.