In the tranquiinty 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 immoveable 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, finished, yet renewed Forever. 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 than 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 seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; and there have been holy men, Who deemed 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, unchained 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.
GoD of the earth's extended plains! The dark green fields contented lie: The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might com'mune with the sky: The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
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! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave 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; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry- Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings ;- Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return! 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.
Lines on revisiting the Country.--BRYANT.
I STAND upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that, in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain,
Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie;
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, And ever-restless steps of one, who now Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year: There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light:
For I have taught her, with delighted eye, To gaze upon the mountains; to behold, With deep affection, the pure, ample sky, And clouds along the blue abysses rolled; To love the song of waters, and to hear The melody of winds with charmed ear
Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds and its polluted air; And, where the season's milder fervours beat,
And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird and sound of running stream, Have come awhile to wander and to dream.
Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen; The maize leaf and the maple bough but take
From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green; The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away.
The mountain wind-most spiritual thing of all The wide earth knows-when, in the sultry time, He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,
He seems the breath of a celestial clime,- As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below.
Lines on a Bee-Hive.-MONTHLY REPOSITORY.
YE musical hounds of the fairy king,
Who hunt for the golden dew,
Who track for your game the green coverts of spring, Till the echoes, that lurk in the flower-bells, ring With the peal of your elfin crew!
How joyous your life. if its pleasures ye knew, Singing ever from bloom to bloom!
Ye wander the summer year's paradise through, The souls of the flowers are the viands for you, And the air that you breathe perfume.
But unenvied your joys, while the richest you miss, And before you no brighter life lies:
Who would part with his cares for enjoyment like this, When the tears, that imbitter the pure spirit's bliss. May be pearls in the crown of the skies!
Account of the Battle of Bunker's Hill, 17th June, 1775.- . BOTTA.
THE succours that the British expected from England had arrived at Boston, and, with the garrison, formed an
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