As oftentimes, in happy soil,
A lofty tree may rise,
And 'neath its gloomy, blighting shade,
A sprout, fair, tender, dies.

One lovely sprout, yes, more than one
Droops, dies beneath the shade,
And, where might be a garden plot,
A tangl'd waste is made.

Ill favor'd weeds, and poison'd fruit,
In rank luxuriance reign,
And virtuous plants may strive to grow,
But strive to grow in vain.

Oh, man, why in thy foolish heart
Should one seed grow so well,
That naught but chaos there should reign,
'Mid poison plants of hell.

Oh, man, immortal in thy soul,
Thou dost possess a will,
Then why not prune these noxious sprouts,
With firm and steady skill.

If thou would'st make thy heart a plot,
Trimm'd, bright, and pure, and clean,
Oh, let no tree o'erpow'r the rest,
Or rank o'ergrowth be seen.