 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
THE GERM OF GOOD.
NO feet this mortal maze have thrid,Or striven its stormy ways to climb,
That could not, in the journey's prime
To heavenly paths be led.
In every heart there's haply hid
(Though choked by weeds of guile and crime,)
Some pure, untainted germ, which time
And nurture may to flower upbid:
And, oh! it were a task sublime
To seek this germ, all withering weeds amid,
And train it, till it hath the heart from venom rid!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |