The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learnedTo hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,And spread the roof above them,—ere he framedThe lofty vault, to gather and roll backThe sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanksAnd supplication. For his simple heartMight not resist the sacred influencesWhich, from the stilly twilight of the place,And from the gray old trunks that high in heavenMingled their mossy boughs, and from the soundOf the invisible breath that swayed at onceAll their green tops, stole over him, and bowedHis spirit with the thought of boundless powerAnd inaccessible majesty. Ah, whyShould we, in the world's riper years, neglectGod's ancient sanctuaries, and adoreOnly among the crowd, and under roofsThat our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it findAcceptance in His ear.
Father, thy handHath reared these venerable columns, thouDidst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look downUpon the naked earth, and, forthwith, roseAll 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 diedAmong their branches, till, at last, they stood,As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,Fit shrine for humble worshipper to holdCommunion with his Maker. These dim vaults,These winding aisles, of human pomp or prideReport not. No fantasting carvings showThe boast of our vain race to change the formOf thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'stThe solitude. Thou art in the soft windsThat run along the summit of these treesIn music;—thou art in the cooler breathThat from the inmost darkness of the placeComes, 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 birdPasses: and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,Wells softly forth and visits the strong rootsOf half the mighty forest, tells no taleOf all the good it does. Thou hast not leftThyself without a witness, in these shades,Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and graceAre here to speak of thee. This mighty oak--By whose immovable stem I stand and seemAlmost annihilated—not a prince,In all that proud old world beyond the deep,Ere wore his crown as loftily as heWears the green coronal of leaves with whichThy hand has graced him. Nestled at his rootIs beauty, such as blooms not in the glareOf the broad sun. That delicate forest flowerWith 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 thinkOf the great miracle that still goes on,In silence, round me—the perpetual workOf thy creation, finished, yet renewedFor ever. Written on thy works I readThe lesson of thy own eternity.Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,How on the faltering footsteps of decayYouth presses—ever gay and beautiful youthIn all its beautiful forms. These lofty treesWave not less proudly that their ancestorsMoulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lostOne of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,After the flight of untold centuries,The freshness of her far beginning liesAnd yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hateOf his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himselfUpon the tyrant's throne—the sepulchre,And of the triumphs of his ghastly foeMakes his own nourishment. For he came forthFrom thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men who hid themselvesDeep in the woody wilderness, and gaveTheir lives to thought and prayer, till they outlivedThe generation born with them, nor seemedLess aged than the hoary trees and rocksAround them;—and there have been holy menWho deemed it were not well to pass life thus.But let me often to these solitudesRetire, and in thy presence reassureMy feeble virtue. Here its enemies,The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrinkAnd tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thouDost scare the world with tempests, set on fireThe heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,With all the waters of the firmament,The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woodsAnd drowns the villages; when, at thy call,Uprises the great deep and throws himselfUpon the continent, and overwhelmsIts cities—who forgets not, at the sightOf these tremendous tokens of thy power,His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy faceSpare me and mine, nor let us need the wrathOf the mad unchained elements to teachWho rules them. Be it ours to meditateIn these calm shades thy milder majesty,And to the beautiful order of thy worksLearn to conform the order of our lives.
"OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS."
Oh fairest of the rural maids!Thy birth was in the forest shades;Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,Were all that met thy infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,Were ever in the sylvan wild;And all the beauty of the placeIs in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocksIs in the light shade of thy locks;Thy step is as the wind, that weavesIts playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose sereneAnd silent waters heaven is seen;Their lashes are the herbs that lookOn their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpressed,Are not more sinless than thy breast;The holy peace, that fills the airOf those calm solitudes, is there.
"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG."
I broke the spell that held me long,The dear, dear witchery of song.I said, the poet's idle loreShall waste my prime of years no more,For Poetry, though heavenly born,Consorts with poverty and scorn.
I broke the spell—nor deemed its powerCould fetter me another hour.Ah, thoughtless! how could I forgetIts causes were around me yet?For wheresoe'er I looked, the while,Was nature's everlasting smile.
Still came and lingered on my sightOf flowers and streams the bloom and light,And glory of the stars and sun;--And these and poetry are one.They, ere the world had held me long,Recalled me to the love of song.