There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And, while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground,
The soul-of origin divine,
God's glorious image-freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A star of day!
The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The soul, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE!
GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES.-A HYMN.
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,―ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn; thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.
Hath rear'd these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 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. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter; 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 summits of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Çomes, 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 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, In silence, round me-the perpetual work Of thy creation, finish'd, 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 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.
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