No sower should be careless,
For harvest much depends
Upon the well-selected seeds,
With mental soil he blends.
If field be rich and mellow
And no good seed be sown,
With tangled mass of vileness
It will be overgrown,
And shield the deadly serpent,
The basilisk of sin,
That far exhales its pois'nous breath,
Then crawls its den within.
No atoms of pollution
In matter e'er was known,
So vile or so destructive
As soul by sin o'erthrown.
The vilest spot upon the earth,
Through sunshine, air, and rain,
May be transformed in ev'ry part
And purified again.
The fields where chaos reigned supreme
And Nature frowned aghast,
By patient-toil have fruitage borne
And blossomed fragrance cast.
The wreck of spheres by traction's laws
Hurled wildly into space,
May gather atoms round itself
And find some resting place
Where it may serve creation's end,
And 'mong the planets roll,
True to the laws of gravity
That marks its outer pole.
The mind and soul can never
Within themselves find rest,
When all the sin's pollutions
Are harbored in the breast.
Then sow good seed, brave teacher,
And deeply plant with care,
That both here and hereafter
Rich harvest it may bear.