IN the tangled, dim old garden, Where the Frost had traced its name, I saw one Autumn morning, A sumac bush aflame; All its leaves, like burning falchions, Leaped up in glowing blaze, And, I thought, the old-time marvel Is wrought in latter days.
Not a fibre curled or shriveled, No tissue scorched or lost; Yet it flamed like the fiery pillar That led old Israel's host; And a voice like perfume stealing, Spake clear, but made no sound, And I knew that it was saying, "This ground is holy ground."
"There's no backward glancing needed To teach thee what to do, For the bush which burned for Moses Glows bright to-day, for you, And the voice that thrilled the prophet To deeds before unwrought, Is the same that now interprets The Everlasting thought."
"O'er the busy Present's pathway Still 'signs and wonders' move, And the miracles of Nature Her laws unchanging prove; Ye have need to walk with reverence Bare-browed and feet unshod, Lest ye fail to see the glory And hear the words of God."
