He that hath ears to hear,
May listen now,
While he shall hear, in mystic words indeed,
Of a good husbandman who took his seed
And went to sow.

Some by the wayside fell,
On breezes borne;
The fowls of air flew down, a greedy train,
And snatched with hasty appetite the grain,
Till all was gone.

Some fell upon the rock ;
And greenly soon
They sprouted as for harvest, strong and fair;
But when the summer sun shone hotly there,
They wilted down.

Some fell among the thorns , —
A fertile soil, —
But ere the grain could raise its timid head,
Luxuriantly the accursed plants o'erspread,
And choked them all.

But some in the good ground , —
God's precious mould, —
Where sun, breeze, dew and showers apportioned well;
And in the harvest, smiling swains could tell
T HEIR HUNDRED FOLD !