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HYMN OF NATURE.

BY PEABODY.

GOD of the earth's extended plain !
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky: The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their foreign bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hung, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,

To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
When summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs The tented dome of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;

Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;

But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow:
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

OH, THOU! BEFORE WHOSE RADIANT SHRINE.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Он, Thou! before whose radiant shrine
Entranced, adoring seraphs bend;

Eternal source of light divine!

Wilt Thou thy hallowed ear incline
And mortal prayer attend?

Yes, Father! yes, benignant Power!

Around Thee beams fair mercy's purest ray;

No awful terrors round Thee lower,

Save when, in judgment's dreaded hour,
Thou bidst creation tremble and obey!

Then, robed in darkness and in clouds,

That solemn veil thy glory shrouds ;
Chaos and night thy dark pavilion form;
Thy spirit on the whirlwind rides,

Impels the unresisting tides,

Glares in the lightning, rushes in the storm!

But Thou wilt meet the suppliant eye,
And Thou wilt mark the lowly sigh;
And Thou the holy tear wilt see
Which penitence devotes to Thee;
That sigh thy breezes waft to heaven,
That holy tear is grateful incense given;
Low, humble, sad, to Thee I bend;

Oh! listen from thy blest abode !
And though celestial hymns ascend,
Oh! deign a mortal's prayer attend,
My Father and my God!

Teach me if hope, if joy, be mine,
To bless Thy bounteous hand divine;
And still, with trembling homage, raise
The grateful pæan of exalted praise!
When deep affliction wounds the soul,
Still let me own thy mild control;
Teach me, submissive and resigned,
To calm the tempest of the mind;
To lift the meek, adoring eye,
Suppress the tear and hush the sigh;
Gaze on one bright, unclouded star,
And hail "the day-spring" from afar,—
Bid angel-faith dispel surrounding gloom,
And soar, on cherub wing, beyond the tomb.

THE PRAYER OF NATURE.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven'
Hearest thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
Father of light, on thee I call!

Thou seest my soul is dark within;
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
No shrine I seek to sects unknown;
Oh point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread omnipotence I own;

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
Shall man confine his Maker's sway
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?

Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne.

Shall man condemn his race to hell

Unless they bend in pompous form;

Tell us that all, for one who fell,

Must perish in the mingling storm?

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