A Forest Hymn

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 thanks

And supplication. For his simple heartMight not resist the sacred influences,Which, 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 adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs,That our frail hands have raised?

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.

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 the breeze,And shot towards heaven.

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, andtall, and dark,Fit shrine for humble worshipperto holdCommunion with his Maker.

These dim vaults,These winding aisles,

f human pomp or prideReport not. No fantastic carvings showThe boast of our vain race to change theformOf thy fair works.

ut 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;

barky trunks, the ground,The fresh moistground,Are allinstinctWith thee.

is continual worship;—nature, here,In the tranquillity that thou dost love,Enjoys thy presence.

around,From perch to perch, the solitary birdPasses; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

half the mighty forest, tells no taleOf all good itdoes.

Thou hast not leftThyself without a witness, in these shades,Of thy perfections.

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,E'er wore his crown as loftily as heWears the green coronal of leaves with whichThy hand has graced him.

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.

heart is awed within me when I thinkOf the great miracle thatstill goes on,In silence, round me—the perpetualworkOf thy creation, finished, yetrenewedFor ever. Written on thy worksI readThe lesson of thy own eternity.

all grow old anddie—but see again,How on the faltering footsteps ofdecayYouth presses—ever gay andbeautiful youthIn all its beautiful forms.

lofty treesWave not less proudly that their ancestorsMoulder beneath them.

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 outlived

generation born with them, norseemedLess 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—

forgets not,at the sightOf these tremendous tokens ofthy power,His pride, and lays his strifesand follies by?Oh, from these sterner aspectsof thy faceSpare me and mine,

let us need the wrathOf the mad unchained elements to teachWho rules them. Be it ours to meditate,In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,And to the beautiful order of thy worksLearn to conform the order of our lives.