Awful waving of the sky-crown'd forest,
Her gentle whisper, like an angel's voice,
Still breaks upon the stillness ;-in the stream
Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet murmur;
While on the varied sky, the frowning mount,
Her chainless hand majestical is laid!
What voice so sweet as hers? what touch so soft,
So delicate? what pencilling so divine?
Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture
To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful!
Say, can imagination, light as air,
Capricious as each varying wind which blows,
Create a model of more perfect loveliness,
More grace and symmetry? Can thought present
A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous,
Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow,
Blending in grace more lovely with another?
Ah no! but 'tis the sin which dwells within
That casts a dark'ning shade o'er Nature's face-
Nought can there be more beauteous and divine;
But to the eye of discontent and wo,
Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow;
And to the chilling glance of stern despair,
Her sweetest smile is but a threatening cloud;
Just as the mind is turn'd she smiles or frowns,
And to each eye a different view appears.
The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt,
Like a white tablet, opens to receive
Each passing hue, and as the colours flit
Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil,
And fit to take once more the forms of joy,
Which ever, as they glide so sweetly by,
Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene.
If dark, degrading sin had never cast
Its shade of gloom o'er Nature's lovely brow,
This world had been an earthly paradise.
An all-presiding God has deck'd our globe
With grace, and life, and light; each object glows
With heavenly tints, and every form
Contains some hidden beauty, which, to minds
Unburden'd with a consciousness of guilt,
Proclaims the power of Him who rules o'er all.
The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee,
Small though they seem, may still contain a world
Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom,
Mix'd with human guilt, can never fathom.
The smallest item in this wondrous plan,
Replete with grace, and harmony, and light,
Would form employment for a fleeting life?
Oh, 't were a home for angels! and a home
No angel might despise, if human guilt
Had never stain'd it with its crimson glow.
Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin
Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams,
And ne'er profaned its broad luxuriant fields
With scenes of wickedness and thoughts of woe,
Had thus remain'd; each heart o'erflowing
With delight and love; each bosom fill'd
With heavenly joy. How awful is the change!
And how tremendous the effect of sin
On.nature and on man! The wayward soul,
Once open'd to degrading guilt, is deaden'd
To her beauty; and all the glowing charms
Which waken'd it to love and happiness,
Ere thus ensnared, are pass'd unnoticed now!
Oh, could we purify our souls from sin,
Would we desire a brighter heaven than this?
More glorious, more sublime, more varied,
Or more beauteous? The softly rippling stream,
The rising mountain, and the leafy wood,
Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene!
The light-crown'd firmament, the tinted sky,
And all the sweetly varying graces
Which bedeck the queenlike brow of nature,
Serve but to show the power of nature's God,
The mighty Lord of this immense creation!
The heavenly Maker of our lovely world.
TO THE INFIDEL.
BEHOLD, thou daring sinner! canst thou say,
As rolls the sun along its trackless course,
A God has never form'd that orb of day,
Of life, and light, and happiness the source?
Who made yon dark blue ocean? Who
The roaring billow and the curling wave,
Dashing and foaming o'er its coral bed,
Of many a hardy mariner the grave?
Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue,
So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear,
Deck'd with its stars and clouds of fleecy white,
Like the bright entrance to another sphere?
Who made the drooping flow'ret? Who
The snowy lily and the blushing rose
Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round,
As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows?
Who raised the frowning rock? Who made
The moss and turf around its base to grow?
Who made the lofty mountains, and the streams
Which at their feet in rippling currents flow?
Say, was it not a God? and does not all
Bear the strong "impress of his mighty hand?'
Oh yes
- his stamp is fix'd on all around.
All sprang to being at our Lord's command.
- oh, ask the immortal mind, And this will be stern reason's firm reply'T will echo over ocean's swelling tide: The hand that form'd us was a Deity!
How great, how wonderful the human mind,
Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread,
Mysterious truth; which spurns the fetters
Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer
Round it; which, yearning for a world more pure,
And more congenial with its heavenly thoughts,
Confines its soaring spirit to the region
Of death and sin! But oh, how glorious
The sublime idea, that though this frame,
Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust,
There is a spark within, which, while on earth,
Gives to the clay its energy and life,
And when that clay returneth to the dust
From whence it came, may rise triumphant
From the senseless clod, and soaring, mount on high, To dwell with beings holy and divine;
And there, with its ever-growing ken,
Clasp the great universe; with angels there
To expand those heaven-born powers, which here
Were fetter'd with the earthly chains that bind
Misguided man-pride, sorrow, discontent,
And cold ambition, foolish and perverted-
But destined there to burn in all its light,
And urge the enfranchised on to seek
Glories still undiscover'd, wonders
As yet unknown. And can it be? Does this
Weak, trembling frame conceal within itself
A soul ethereal and immortal?
A glorious spark, sublime and boundless,
"Struck from the burning essence of its God,"
The great I AM, the dread Eternal?
Oh, how tremendous is the awful thought!
The soul shrinks back alarm'd, too weak to gaze
On its own greatness, or rather on the greatness
Of that God who made it! Yes! 'tis his work!
The moulding of his mighty hand! How dread,
How peerless, how incomparably great
The Governor and Former of this vast machine!
Who watches from on high its slightest thought,
And omnipresent and unbounded, sways
Each feeling and each impulse! and whose touch,
However slight, may turn its passions from
Their common channel, and whose breath can tune
Aright those delicate and hidden fibres,
Which, rudely touch'd, would yield their finest chords, And thus destroy the harmony of all,
Leaving a blank and darken'd chaos
Where once was harmony and joy!
Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind,
Tamper not lightly with the human mind;
But when an erring friend from virtue strays,
Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide
Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom.
Oh 'tis a fearful thing to see the mind,
Derived from such a pure and holy source,
Debased by sin, by dark, offensive crime,
And render'd equal with the beasts that roam?
To see the wreck of all that once was good,
The shrinking remnant of a noble soul,
Like the proud ship, which for a while may stem
The roaring ocean, but o'ercome by storms,
With half its voyage done, is torn apart-
The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all,
The guiding helm-until the shatter'd hulk
Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts,
Threaten'd by frowning rocks;-but as some
Friendly hand may snatch from death's embrace
The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour's love
Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner,
And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven!
The mighty God who saw him err, can change,
Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart,
And give to his apostate soul those pure
And blessed dreams of heaven,
Those hopes of immortality, which soothe
The dying Christian; and when his spirit
Ascends to dwell with Him it once despised,
Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord,
It there may join in love and hope with all
The angel band, in singing praises
To their glorious King, the great Jehovah!
Oh that we too might cherish every virtue,
Prepare our minds for immortality,
Where undisturb'd they may expand,
And reach perfection in a future world.
1834.
ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER'S RETURN,
WHY rejoices my heart at the passage of time,
As it sweeps on the wind o'er the fast-rolling year,
And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines,
His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear?
I pause not to question if wise it may be,
But faster I'll hurry old Time on his way;
And while hours unnumber'd shall rapidly flee,
I'll laugh as they fade from the fast-closing day
When the icy-cold spell of stern winter shall break,
And the snow shall dissolve like the dewdrops of morn;
When spring from his death-like embraces shall wake,
And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn;
To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile,
The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide;
More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile,
And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed.
I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom,
Aroused, as by magic, from winter's cold tomb,
For my heart will be gladden'd as near and more near
The period approaches when he will be here.
Oh June! how resplendent thy flowers shall appear,
The loveliest, the sweetest which bloom in the year!
For with me a fond brother your grace shall admire,
And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire.
But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vain,
He never may visit the loved scene again;
On his home the dread weight of affliction may rest,
And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast;
Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever
And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever.
But love will illumine the future with light,
And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright
As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted,
Or fancy with all her illusions has granted,
1834.
TO MY MOTHER.
THE spring of life is opening
Upon my youthful mind,
And every day the more I see,
The more there is to find.
The path of life is beautiful
When sprinkled o'er with flowers,
And I ne'er felt affliction's touch,
Or watch'd the weary hours.
To guard my youthful couch from wo,
An angel hovers near,
Watches my bosom's every throe,
And wipes each childish tear,
It is my mother--and with her
Through life I'd sweetly glide,
And when my pilgrimage is o'er
I'd moulder at her side.
To her I dedicate my lay,
'Tis she inspires my song;
Oh that it might those charms possess,
Which to the muse belong.
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