Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak-
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated-not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation from the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me-the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd
For ever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thine own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die-but see again,
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth,
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy, Death-yea, he seats himself
Upon the tyrant's throne--the sepulchre,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seem'd
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them ;-and there have been holy men
Who deem'd it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities-who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchain'd elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see
Only in savage wood
And sunny vale, the present Deity;
Or only hear His voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.
Thy steps, Almighty!-here, amidst the crowd,
Through the great city roll'd,
With everlasting murmur deep and loud-
Choking the ways that wind
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.
Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes;
For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound-
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng—
Like the resounding sea,
Or, like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.
And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast-
The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.
Missionary Hymn.
FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand:
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver
Their land from Error's chain!
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile:
In vain with lavish kindness,
The gifts of God are strown,
The Heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone!
Can we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Can we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny ?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth's remotest nation
Has learn'd Messiah's name!
From the Hymn on the Natibity.
BUT peaceful was the night,
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kiss'd,
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The shepherds on the lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they then,
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves or else their sheep
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortal finger strook;
Divinely warbled voice
Answering the stringed noise,
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loath to lose,
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Such music (as 'tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung,
While the Creator great
His constellations set,
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres,
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our senses so,
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow ; And, with your ninefold harmony,
Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For, if such holy song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity'
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Throned in celestial sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
And Heaven, as at some festival,
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
Heart of Christ, O Cup Most Golden !
HEART of Christ, O cup most golden!
Brimming with salvation's wine,
Million souls have been beholden
Unto thee for life divine;
Thou art full of blood the purest,
Love the tenderest and surest:
Blood is life, and life is love;
Oh, what wine is there like love!
Heart of Christ, O cup most golden!
Out of thee the martyrs drank,
Who for truth in cities olden
Spake, nor from the torture shrank;
Saved they were from traitor's meanness,
Fill'd with joys of holy keenness :
Strong are those that drink of of love;
Oh, what wine is there like love!
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