Fresh sprig of greenest southernwood...

Fresh sprig of greenest southernwood . . . . . . . . Thou call'st me back to my childhood! Thy aromatic odors waken A thousand echoes. I hear the good

Old man of God, long-haired and tall, In the old church, to great and small, His lightning message give, and listen The echoing thunder that rolled o'er all.

The tiny child twirls oft its spray Of southernwood,—'tis a far day, Yet fresh I smell the keen aroma, See arms ahovering—"Let us pray!"