A Forest Hymn.

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned     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 offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks     And supplication. For his simple heart     Might not resist the sacred influences     Which, 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 swayed at once     All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed     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.          Father, thy hand     Hath reared 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. These dim vaults,     These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride     Report not. No fantasting 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 summit of these trees     In music; thou art in the cooler breath     That from the inmost darkness of the place     Comes, 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 that proud old world beyond the deep,     Ere 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     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. Oh, 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 tyrant's throne, the sepulchre,     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. Oh, 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?     Oh, 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.