WOOD WALK AND HYMN.1

"Move along these shades

In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods."-WORDSWORTH,

FATHER-CHILD.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery
leaves

Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy,

The peasant's legend of that quivering tree? Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches?

Father. Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign

To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?
Father. Nay, my child,

We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them-far, far too fast!-away
As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!

More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?

Father. Wilt thou know more?

Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains
There by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips-see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent carnestness.)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!

And hast thou seen

The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods, But midst the bright things brought from other climes. [purple streaks, Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with And light green tendrils?

Father. Thou hast mark'd it well.

Yes! a pale, starry, dreatny-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits! To mine eye
Those faint, wan petals-colourless, and yet
Not white, but shadowy-with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!—and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs
Set by God's hand-the coronal of thorns-
The cross, the wounds-with other meanings deep
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.

But let us pause:
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal

would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called The Wood Walk and Hymn;' we will quote the commencement of it

'There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,'" etc.

Blackwood's Magazine, Dec. 1848.

O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.

Here, in the days

Of pagan visions, would have been a place [oaks
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom, or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge-deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude-
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.

What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late-'twas made for such a scene.
Child speaks.

Surely some awful influence must pervade These depths of trembling shade!

Yes! lightly, softly move!

There is a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes :
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-
Thou-thou art here, my God!

And if with awe we tread

The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane,
And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?-where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?

The silence and the sound,

In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd-
All, all with thee are fill'd!

Oh! purify mine eyes,

More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought
And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!

And sanctify my heart

To meet the awful sweetness of that tone With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, But a deep joy the heavenly guest to ownJoy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.

Let me not know the change O'er nature thrown by guilt!-the boding sky, The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie! Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free, To walk the woods with thee!

PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.

"Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world Sustain-Tnou only canst-the sick at heart; Restore their languid spirits, and recall

Their lost affections unto thee and thine."-WORDSWORTE

NIGHT-holy night-the time

For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!

Night!—when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul

To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!

Now hath strange sadness wrapp'd me, strange and deep

And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll, E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep Far beyond earth's control.

Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning, Fire after fire in heaven's rich temple burning: Fast shine they forth-my spirit-friends, my guides, Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;

They shine-but faintly, through a quivering haze : Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays? They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!

A joy unquestioning-a love intense

They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone

On wastes of Afric thrown,

And not to me?

Am I a thing forsaken?
And is the gladness taken

From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?

And now an alien! Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
--Father of Spirits ! let me turn to thee!

Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,

My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, Hath stood without thee on her hill of powerA fearful and a dazzling solitude! And therefore from that haughty summit's crown To dim desertion is by thee cast down; Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'dShine on him through the cloud!

Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven Back to his vision with thy face be given!

Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,

And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might, Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chas ten'd sight.

Or if it be that, like the ark's lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate-
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest !-I am vow'd
To solemn service high;

And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone

Unto the altar-stone

Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred, solitary way?

Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!-Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,

Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne

On wings of inner morn,

Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense.

The dimness melts away
That on your glory lay,

O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,

Your gladdening fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower

Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light-
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace

On heaven's unshadow'd faceBe it e'en so!-be mine, though set apart Unto a radiant ministry, yet still

A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart,
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless'd will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.1

THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.

FATHER! guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough

O'er the sky's last crimson glow :
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn

Dies away.

Father in the forest dim, Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father through the storm and shade
O'er the wild,

Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid-
Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast

Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste-
God of might!

Shield the homeless midst the waste!
Be his light!

In his distant cradle-nest,

Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful its slumber seems

With a glow of heavenly dreams

1 Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir Wil

Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.
Father! guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!

Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!

Darker, wilder grows the night;
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern, old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,

By thy Son who knew distress

In the lonely wilderness,

Where no roof to that bless'd head Shelter gave

Father through the time of dread, Save-oh, save!

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

SCENE. The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping.

Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream-a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony

The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad, lonely river -all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice-

panes

In happy, happy England! Speak to me !
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!

(Shudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling touch! The marble chill! Now, now it rushes backNow I know all !-dead-dead!-a fearful word!

liam Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the St November 1832.

My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep, loving eyes. He's gone!-he's gone!
Her HUSBAND enters.

Husband. Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last

[ yet!

On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is come--
The couch made ready for his last repose.
Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now-oh! now,
Never again the laughter of his eye

Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul
--Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.

Husband. My beloved!

Is it not God hath taken him? the God

That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, "His will be done!"

Agnes. Oh that near household grave,
Under the turf of England, seem'd not half-
Not half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;

And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers,
Familiar meadow-flowers. O'er thee, my babe!
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister's side,
We lay midst England's valleys!

Husband. Dost thou grieve,

Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes. Forgive! forgive!

My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild--
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!

(Kneeling with the child in her arms.)
And thou, my God!

Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness !
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,

Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!

If nature hath rebell'd,
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand-oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice-
Father! say, "Peace, be still!"

(Giving the child to her husband.)
Farewell, my babe!

Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!

Husband. Now, my wife!

Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose-
With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes. My Edmund! where-
Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband. See'st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?-there-o'er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the gray mosses of the wilderness [forth,
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed
E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn-a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,

As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes. My gentle son!

The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?-with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more!
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.

(Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!
(After a short pause.)

Edmund! my woman's nature still is weak-
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task;