Turn it, and it shall paint as true
  The soft green of the vernal earth,
And each small flower of bashful hue,
  That closest hides its lowly birth.

Our mirror is a blessed book,
  Where out from each illumined page
We see one glorious Image look
  All eyes to dazzle and engage,

The Son of God: and that indeed
  We see Him as He is, we know,
Since in the same bright glass we read
  The very life of things below. -

Eye of God's word! where'er we turn
  Ever upon us! thy keen gaze
Can all the depths of sin discern,
  Unravel every bosom's maze:

Who that has felt thy glance of dread
  Thrill through his heart's remotest cells,
About his path, about his bed,
  Can doubt what spirit in thee dwells?

"What word is this? Whence know'st thou me?"
  All wondering cries the humbled heart,
To hear thee that deep mystery,
  The knowledge of itself, impart.

The veil is raised; who runs may read,
  By its own light the truth is seen,
And soon the Israelite indeed
  Bows down t' adore the Nazarene.

So did Nathanael, guileless man,
  At once, not shame-faced or afraid,
Owning Him God, who so could scan
  His musings in the lonely shade;

In his own pleasant fig-tree's shade,
  Which by his household fountain grew,
Where at noon-day his prayer he made
  To know God better than he knew.

Oh! happy hours of heavenward thought!
  How richly crowned! how well improved!
In musing o'er the Law he taught,
  In waiting for the Lord he loved.