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To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees,
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight—
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation— Thou 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— Didst say to him—though seemingly alone "Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees, Or the more silent ground—it was not death, But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;— That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him The winter's night, and, patient of the day, And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,) Waitedst return of summer.
More thou saidst, Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man! Thou spokest of faith, (than instinct no less sure,) Of spirits near him though he saw them not: Thougadest him ope his intellectual eye, And see his solitude all populous: Thou showedst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listem to the flow Of living waters.
Preacher to man’s spirits Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter! Thou faithful one ! is this thine end? 'Twas thou, When summer birds were gone, and no form seen In the void air, who camest, living and strong, On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds. And of thy long enduring, this the close ! Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms, Thus low brought down.
The year’s mild, cheering dawn Upon thee shone a momentary light. The gales of spring upbore thee for a day, And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now; And liest among thy hopes and promises— Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades, Gasping thy life out. Here for thee the grass Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds—
Laid thus low by age 4 Or is't
I needs must mourn for thee. For I—who have
And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade
In living man.
Who scoffs these sympathies,
And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, He who doth hear the ravens cry for food, Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible, In signs mysterious, written what alone Our hearts may read.—Death bring thee rest, poor bird.
God of the earth's extended plains!
God of the dark and heavy deep !