Come and taste of the bliss in high holiness dwelling,
Beneath the spread bough as the shadows increase;
Come and listen to nature, while plaintively telling,
By eloquent silence, her lessons of peace.
W. MARTIN.
MAGNIFICENCE OF MOUNTAIN SCENERY.
WHAT lonely magnificence stretches around!
Each sight how sublime! and how awful each sound!
All hush'd and serene, as a region of dreams,
The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams;
Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven,
But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven.
Here the glory of nature hath nothing to fear—
Aye! Time the destroyer in power hath been here;
And the forest that hung on yon mountain so high,
Like a black thunder-cloud on the arch of the sky,
Hath gone,
like a cloud, when the tempest came by.
Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and decay'd
Where the floods have been raging, the limbs are
display'd,
Of the pine tree and oak, sleeping vast in the gloom,-
The kings of the forest disturb'd in their tomb.
E'en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold,
O'erhanging the desert, the forests of old!
So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade,
Like the heavens above them, they never may fade :
The sun-light is on them, in silence they sleep,
A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep,
When the billows scarce heave in the calmness of
Down the pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is borne,
And the hill-side is swinging, and roars with a sound
In the heart of the forest embosom'd profound,
Till all in a moment the tumult is o'er,
And the mountain of thunder is still as the shore,
When the sea is at ebb; not a leaf, nor a breath,
To disturb the wild solitude, steadfast as death.
PROFESSOR WILSON.
Too bright to gaze upon, too fair to shun,
Say, hast thou ever beam'd upon the eye,
And not into the bosom, didst thou e'er
Rise on a tribe or nation, though amid
The barren desert or the pathless wild,
Without imparting cheer? From the deep
Impenetrable woods, where man's proud foot
Ne'er trod to tyrannize, the freedom roar
Of the bold lion greets thee, and his rage
Dies as thy glory brightens. Beautiful,
Beloved master-piece of the Most High,
Fain would I fall to earth and worship Thee,
Did I not know thy maker also mine.
MINE my soul is now above thee, orb,
My thoughts are farther than thy beams can pierce; They are of brighter orbs than even thee,
And make thy light more precious, and the shade
When thou hast left us more endurable:
For through the dimmest hour, the meanest heart,
The SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS is piercing now,
The web has been withdrawn, the spider-film
Clear'd from the sense, and immortality
Clothes the joy'd heart in radiance of its own
And a more glorious sunshine; that will beam
With undiminish'd lustre, when thy light
Hath pass'd away upon eternity
Like a brief exhalation, and thy form
Hath vanish'd like a bubble in the stream!
THERE is beauty for ever, bewitchingly fair,
In earth, or in ocean, in sunlight, and air,
That glows through all seasons, exists through all
And multiplies joy in each far-severed clime.
A beauty, a glory, a grandeur, a charm, [warm;
That gives the eye brightness, and makes the heart
That whispers the soul of a Being divine,
That speaks, Lord, of thee,-it is thine, it is thine!
The burst of the spring, in its blooming and budding,
Like stars all the emerald meadow-lands studding;
The rush of bright wings on the glimmering dawn,
The sparkle of flies on the sunlight of morn;
The diamonds of dew on the full-blooming trees,
The sweet song of birds, and the soft hum of bees;
And all that can beautify,-all that can shine,-
Oh! Lord of our life,-they are thine, they are thine!
Above us, the sapphire hangs gorgeous and bright,
O'er-spangled with worlds in the grandeur of night,
Shining on, shining on, in an undying splendour,
Yet still looking down on us tearful and tender;
To woo our souls heavenward, and silently kiss
Them unto their spheres, from the darkness of this.
Oh! where is this beauty?—from whom doth it shine?
Dear Father of love,-it is thine, it is thine!
The MIND,-that bright temple of undying things,
That gushes for ever with unfailing springs,
That holds the dear germ of this beauty entire,
And hovers, and glows, like the pure altar's fire,-
Sent down from the heavens to enlighten and move
The host of its thoughts to devotion and love.
Oh! whose is this temple, so bright and divine?
Dear God of our hope,-it is thine, it is thine!
W. MARTIN
To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language. For his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,
Go forth unto the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice:-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears;
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet, not to thy eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone ;-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty; and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings; yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
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