APHORISMS.—No. XII.

See 'neath the swelling storm, The willow's slender form With grace doth ever yield; While oaks, the monarchs of the field, In pride resist the blast, And prostrate lie, ere it is past: But now the storm is o'er, The willow bows no more; While oaks from overthrow No rising ever know. So with the meek, in strife Against the storms of life; Though often roughly cast, They stand erect at last: But those who will not bend To what their God doth send, Are whelmed in lasting woe, And rising up will never know.