Nature has her sickly years,
'Tis to show she's not divine;
In the failure it appears
Of an humble, blighted vine.

Says vain man, with plenty blest,
‘Thus to-morrow too shall be;’
But who knows what will be best?
Who the morrow can foresee?

On the morrow, in his sight,
Droops his harvest far and wide;
Touched by some mysterious blight,
Sent to humble human pride.

‘'Tis the effect of natural laws,’
Says proud Science, blinded still;
‘I will show mankind its cause,
And remove it by my skill.’

‘God no miracle has wrought,
Since creation's early hour;
When from chaos, or from naught,
Worlds were fashioned by his power.’

But the human heart, more wise,
Sees in this His present hand;
And in lowly wisdom, tries
All He does to understand.

Asks, ‘why, with a blighted vine,
Nations' fate should be entwined?’
‘How all nature doth combine
To fulfill what God's designed?’

Learns whate'er the Lord may give,
Or whate'er he takes away;
Trusting in His love to live,
That doth feed us day by day.

With new sympathy it glows
For its hapless neighbor's lot;
And its love to others shows,
Who to like distress are brought.

Feels that all mankind are one,
Not in knowledge, but in love;
And, wherever shines the sun,
Should their common kindred prove.