The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn tanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn; thrice happy, if it find
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches; till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here; thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its heros. Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 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 immoveable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated-not a prince,
In all the 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 has 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 of 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, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy 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. O, 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, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 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 seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; and there have been holy men, Who deemed 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. O 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? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained 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.
GOD of the earth's extended plains! The dark green fields contented lie: The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might com'mune 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 banis Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.
God of the forest's solemn shade! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they forz To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.
God of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry— Breathe forth the language of thy powe
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings; Each briliant star, that sparkles througn, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of ga. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne
God of the world! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return! Her crumbling altars must decay!
Her incense fires shall cease to burn! But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below.
Lines on revisiting the Country.-Bryant.
I STAND upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain,
Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie;
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, And ever-restless steps of one, who now Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year: There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light :
For I have taught her, with delighted eye, To gaze upon the mountains; to behold, With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, And clouds along the blue abysses rolled; To love the song of waters, and to hear The melody of winds with charmed ear.
Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds and its polluted air; And, where the season's milder fervours beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird and sound of running stream, Have come awhile to wander and to dream.
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