Seed for Heaven

The boy sat listening to the wordsThat from his mother fell,Pure lessons, wrapp'd in gentle tones,Like music's softest swell.

And oft he mark'd her musing brow,With holy silence bright,And bless'd its placid smile, and deem'dThat angels loved the sight.

Yet when that mother laid her downTo rest in mouldering clay,The world's temptations o'er him roll'd,And swept his faith away.

Like bird that scorns the fowler's snare,He trifled with his fate,Forgot to seek the Spirit's aid,Or for its teachings wait.

Yet once, as in his midnight watch,The lonely deck he paced,With naught but solemn stars above,And, round, old Ocean's waste,

Methought her warning voice, who long'Neath the cold sods had slept,Spake forth from every rushing waveThat on resistless swept;

Methought a teardrop, like her own,Fell from the gathering cloud,That round the slowly-rising moonHad wreath'd its silver shroud;

Methought the searching eye of GodFlamed in his secret soul,And down the proud man bow'd, with tears,To own its strong control:

The Saviour's lowly yoke he took,His flinty heart was riven,And so the seed his mother sow'dBrought forth rich fruit for Heaven.