INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.
And next interrogate Futurity
So fondly tenanted with better things
Than e'er experience own'd—but both are mute;
And past and future, vocal on all else,
So full of memories and phantasies,
Are deaf and speechless here? Fatigued, I turn
From all vain parley with the elements;
And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward.
From each material thing its anxious guest,
If, in the stillness of the waiting soul,
He may vouchsafe himself, Spirit to spirit!
Oh Thou, at once most dreaded and desired,
Pavilion'd still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee?
What though the rash request be fraught with fate,
Nor human eye may look on thine and live?
Welcome the penalty! let that come now
Which soon or late must come.
Who would not dare to die?
And hush the wish that knows not what it asks.
Await his will, who hath appointed this
With every other trial. Be that will
Done now as ever. For thy curious search,
And unprepared solicitude to gaze
On Him-the Unreveal'd-learn hence, instead,
To temper highest hope with humbleness.
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts,
Till rent the veil, no longer separating
The holiest of all; as erst disclosing
A brighter dispensation; whose results
Ineffable, interminable, tend
E'en to the perfecting thyself, thy kind,
Till meet for that sublime beatitude,
By the firm promise of a voice from heaven
Pledged to the pure in heart!
"GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS."
Go forth into the fields,
Ye denizens of the pent city's mart!
Go forth and know the gladness nature yields
To the care-wearied heart.
The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng ;—
Ten thousand voices, waked anew to life,
Call you with sweetest song.
Hark! from each fresh-clad bough,
Or blissful soaring in the golden air,
Bright birds with joyous music bid you now
To spring's loved haunts repair.
The silvery gleaming rills
Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea,
Or gayly dancing down the sunny hills,
Call loudly in their glee!
And the young, wanton breeze,
With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase,
In voice low whispering 'mong th' embowering trees,
Woos you to her embrace.
Go-breathe the air of heaven,
Where violets meekly smile upon your way;
Or on some pine-crown'd summit, tempest-riven,
Your wandering footsteps stay.
"GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS."
Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear,
And listen, while the roar of some far flood
Thrills the young leaves with fear!
Stand by the tranquil lake,
Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye,
Save when the wild bird's wing its surface break,
Checkering the mirror'd sky-
And if within your breast,
Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ;
If aught save worldly honours find you blest,
Or hope of sordid gain,-
A strange delight shall thrill,
A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove;
Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill,
Stirring its depths with love.
O, in the calm, still hours,
The holy Sabbath-hours, when sleeps the air,
And heaven, and earth, deck'd with her beauteous flowers,
Lie hush'd in breathless prayer,—
Pass ye the proud fane by,
The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod,
And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky,
Go forth and worship God!
STANZAS WRITTEN IN AUTUMN.
BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.
THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And autumn, with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head,
THE GRAY FOREST-EAGLE.
Go there, with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone,-
See that it all is fair and bright,
Feel that it all is cold and gone.
WITH storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye, The gray forest-eagle is king of the sky!
O, little he loves the green valley of flowers,
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours,
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
Only rippling of waters and waving of trees;
There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song;
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's nought but his shadow black gliding across;
But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce, rock-lash'd torrent, he claims as his home:
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood; .
From the crag-grasping fir-top, where morn hangs its wreath,
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath:
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