And the day passed on, and the sun came down Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled All over the west like a wave of gold. Yet he came not back-though the stars gave forth Their wizard light to the silent earth; And his wife looked out from the lattice dim, In the earnest manner of fear for him; And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood To welcome his father back from the wood! He came not back-yet they found him soon He slept in death;-but his sleep was one And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, That an evil deed had been done on him. They buried him where his fathers laid, By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade; Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead, The seasons passed; and the autumn rain There came a sound on the night-air then, And, every year, when autumn flings grave: WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY. HYMN OF NATURE. GOD of the carth's extended plains! 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, 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 thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. God of the forest's solemn shade! Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; 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! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; That hardly lifts the drooping flower, God of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs God of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright For every fire that fronts the sun, God of the world! the hour must come, 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. THE AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light! The winds breathe low; the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree; So gently flows the parting breath, When good men cease to be. |