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 the 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,
-the perpetual work
In silence, round me—
Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renewed
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 sepulchre, and blooms, and smiles,
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 seem'd
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them; and there have been holy men
Who deem'd 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, its 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, unchain'd 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.
EFFECTS OF THE GRACE OF GOD.
GRACE does not steel the faithful heart,
That it should know no ill;
We learn to kiss the chastening rod,
And feel its sharpness still.
But how unlike the Christian's tears
To those the world must shed!
His sighs are tranquil and resign'd
As the heart from which they sped.
The saint may be compell'd to meet
Misfortune's saddest blow;
His bosom is alive to feel
The keenest pang of wo.
But, ever as the wound is given,
There is a hand unseen,
Hasting to wipe away the scar,
And hide where it has been.
The Christian would not have his lot
Be other than it is;
For, while his Father rules the world,
He knows that world is his.
He knows that He who gave the best,
Will give him all beside;
Assured that every good he asks
Is evil, if denied.
When clouds of sorrow gather round,
His bosom owns no fear;
He knows, where'er his portion be,
His God will still be there.
And when the threaten'd storm has burst, Whate'er the trial be,
Something yet whispers him within,
"Be still, for it is He!"
Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint
Impatient nature spoke.
He knows it is a Father's will,
And therefore it is good;
Nor would he venture, by a wish,
To change it, if he could.
His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrows to disown;
Yields to his pleasure, and forgets
The choice was not his own.
THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam :
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to thee :-
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom on her wings.
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