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
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
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 For ever.
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.
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. One of earth's charms:
Oh, there is not lost 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 tyrant's throne--the sepulchre,
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.
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. Oh, 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? Oh, 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.
I saw an aged man upon his bier,
His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year;—
Cares that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.
Then rose another hoary man and said,
In faltering accents, to that weeping train, Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,
Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast.
Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, And leaves the smile of his departure, spread O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head.
Why weep ye then for him, who, having won The bound of man's appointed years, at last, Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, Serenely to his final rest has passed;
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