To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees, From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds. Over my head the winds and they make music; And, grateful, in return for what they take, Thus mutual love brings mutual delight— Thou Prophet of so fair a revelationThou who abodest with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft, From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam, camest forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell, To speak of comfort unto lonely man- 'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees, 95 More thou saidst, Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man! Of spirits near him though he saw them not: And see his solitude all populous: Thou showedst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow Of living waters. Preacher to man's spirit! Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter! Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms, The year's mild, cheering dawn Upon thee shone a momentary light. The gales of spring upbore thee for a day, THE DYING RAVEN. In silence open their fair, painted folds To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these. Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds, Intelligent and capable of voice They seem to me. Their silence to my soul Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird, Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls Thou 'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds, Laid thus low by age? Or is 't All-grudging man has brought thee to this end? Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound Around the grain God gives thee for thy food, Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain. 97 I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have No fields, nor gather into garners-I Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade Who scoffs these sympathies, Makes mock of the divinity within; Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul, The universal spirit.-Hear it cry, "How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man! How deaden thee to universal love, And joy of kindred with all humble things- And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird. HYMN OF NATURE. BY W. O. B. PEABODY. GOD of the earth's extended plains! Where man might commune with the sky : The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow. GOD of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale GOD of the forest's solemn shade! The grandeur of the lonely tree, |