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 immovable 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. 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 tyrant's throne,--the sepulchre,
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 his 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.
Be kind to thy father, for when thou wert young, Who loved thee so fondly as he!
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue;
And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father, -for now he is old,
His locks intermingle with gray;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen;
O well mayst thou cherish and comfort her now,
For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray,
As long as God giveth her breath;
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way,
E'en to the dark valley of death.
Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth,
If the smile of thy joy be withdrawn ;
The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth,
If the dew of affection be gone.
Be kind to thy brother,—wherever you are,
The love of a brother shall be
An ornament purer and richer by far,
Than pearls from the depths of the sea.
Be kind to thy sister,-not many may know
The depth of true sisterly love;
|