SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go-but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,—ere he framed
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 thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, Which, 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 Acceptance in his ear.
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. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. 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 summit 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 herbs, 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 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 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
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. Oh, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
« PreviousContinue » |