Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks, and groves, in hollow whispering gales;
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown! tempest o'er tempest roll'd
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore,
And tremblest Nature with Thy northern blast.
Should fate command me to the furthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, as in the city full !
And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When e'en, at last, the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there with new powers,
With rising wonders, sing. I cannot go
Where universal love not shines around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns,
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better theme again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable!
Come, then, expressive silence! muse His praise.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a world to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind;
His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven ; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire,-
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies
To fill the heart's fond view?
In childhood's sports companions gay ;
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay,
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside-the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions rage and glare!
But cheerful, and unchanged the while,
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of Heaven a course are taught, Too high above our human thought ;— Ye may be found, if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths, and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide;
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes;
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused, and own'd you good, His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd.
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep restless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you, and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
"Live for to-day!" to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight.
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless.
The scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it,
The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it.
The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,
From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blaz'd
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.
I sigh'd as I look'd from the hill's gentle slope;
All hush'd was the billow's commotion;
And I thought that the beacon look'd lovely as Hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star,
That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
Merrily, merrily, goes the bark,
On a breeze from the northward free,
So shoots through the morning sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer sea.
|
