THE VASE AND THE WEED:

A PLEA FOR THE BIBLE.

I had a vase of classic beauty, Rare in richly-carved design; Memento of an ancient splendour Was this peerless vase of mine. A master-hand of old had graved it: Hand for many a year inurned: And out from every line and tracing Germs of genuine genius yearned. I took the gem and proudly placed it On a pillar 'mongst the flowers, And watcht how radiance round it hovered, Bathed with sunlight and with showers. A little weed-like plant grew near it, And anon crept o'er its face; Until at length, with stealth insidious, It quite obscured its classic grace, And where was once a noble picture Of the Beauteous and the True, There hung a mass of straggling herbage Flecked with blooms of sickly hue. The Summer passed: the plant had flourished, As every weed in Summer will; When Winter came and struck the straggler To the heart with bitter chill. It died: the winds of March played round it, Laughing at its wretched plight. Then blew it from its slender holding, Like a feather out of sight. But still in undimmed freshness standing, Reared the vase its classic face; Rare in its old, eternal beauty, Majestic in its pride of place.