Nature's Beauty

I looked on Nature's beauty, and it cameLike a blest spirit to my inmost heart,And darkness fled away. The fragrant breezeSwept o'er me, as a tale of other times,Lifting the curtain from the ancient cellsOf early memory. The young vine put forthHer quivering tendrils, while the patron boughLured their light clasping with that lore which leavesDo whisper to each other, when they leanTo drink the music of the summer-shower.There was a sound of wings, and through the meshOf her green-latticed chamber, stole the birdTo cheer her callow young. The stream flowed on,And on its lake-like breast, the bending treesDid glass themselves with such serene repose,That their still haunt seemed holy. The spent sunTurned to his rest, and full his parting rayTo mountain-top, and spire, and verdant grove,And burnished casement, and reposing nest,Spake benediction. And the vesper-strainWent breathing up from every plant and flower.The rose did fold itself, as at the cryFrom the high minaret, "to prayer! to prayer!"The Moslem kneels; and the half-sleeping eyeOf the young violet, looked devoutly forth,Like the meek shepherd from his cottage door,When the clear horn doth warn the Alpine cliffs,To praise the Lord. And then the queenly Moon

Came through Heaven's portal. High her vestal trainDid bear their brilliant cressets in their hands,Trembling with pride and pleasure. Beauty lay,Like a broad mantle, on each slumbering dell,And to the domes that peered through woven shades,Gave attic grace. But on one roof, the eyeDid gaze instinctively, singling it outFrom all this flood of loveliness, as turnsThe mariner to some fair isle of rest,Calling it home. I love to see thee raiseThy stainless forehead through the sheltering elm,Sequestered mansion. Other forms than thoseThat I have reared, may in thy nursery play,Yet ne'er will I forget thee. Stranger-tonesMay wake the echoes of thine airy halls,And other names than his, whose classic tasteReared thy pure columns, and thy haunts adorned,May claim thy mastership: for change doth writeWith Protean pencil, on all things that manWould call his own.It is not meet that earthOr aught of earthly heritage, assumeHeaven's feature of duration. Yet 'tis sweet,On Nature's beauteous page, to read of God,And I would bear the picture in my heartOf these sweet woods and waters, summer-drestAnd angel-voiced, until I lay me downOn the low pillow of my last repose.