For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,
Most plainly rent by its roots alone,
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:
Whose gradual stress would still expand
The crevice, and topple upon the sand
The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand
The tree in its living verdure!—Who
Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew
Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
Did more to shiver this ancient wall
Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all
The centuries, in their lapse and fall!
Then I knelt by the riven granite there,
And my soul shook off its weight of care,
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:—
"The living seeds I have dropped remain
In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"
Margaret J. Preston.