Kindness, exorcising evil,
By her spell of potent power; Love and Truth, mankind encircling
With the bliss which is their dower.
Up! it is a glorious era!
Never yet has dawned its peer! Up! and work! and then a nobler In the future shall appear; "Onward!" is the present's motto, To a larger, higher life;
"Onward!" though the march be weary, Though unceasing be the strife.
Pitch not here thy tent, for higher Doth the bright ideal shine, And the journey is not ended
Till thou reach that height divine; Upward! and above earth's vapors, Glimpses shall to thee be given, And the fresh and odorous breezes, Of the very hills of heaven.
W. C. BRYANT.
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.
Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits 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 groundThe fresh moist ground
are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoy 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 the proud old world beyond the deep, E'er 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 Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy eternity.
Oh! from the 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.
'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world.
Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling;- 't is the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past,-yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh—and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks, -and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad,
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, Gone from the Earth forever.
For and for tears. Within the deep, memory Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love;
And, bending mournfully above the pale,
Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart.
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous,-and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er
POETICAL DECLAMATIONS AND RECITATIONS.
The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of mid-day,-and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded, like a wreath of mist at eve! Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams.
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!- What power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on,
He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag,—but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow, - cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns,— mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain, new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, -and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void, · yet, Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not, Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.
[The Priestess stands alone, with one arm leaning on her altar.]
Priestess. Here is my altar, naked—and I a Priestess! Why come they not, those gentle messengers whom I sent abroad to bring me the pure and beautiful things of earth? Has the glory of this world departed, that they linger thus in its pursuit? Nay, not all departed, for here cometh Flora, the queen of a radiant realm.
All hail, sweet Priestess! I have wandered long, But the dear flowers were sleeping in their graves; Only a few, from all the beauteous throng, Have wakened at the song of spring's wild waves. Those few I bring thee, from their far retreat, An offering for thine altar, pure and sweet.
Priestess. Bless thee, Flora! They shall lie there, as beautiful tokens of thy faithful ministries to man. makest the earth radiant for his footsteps; and the rugged scenes along his pilgrimage are decked with beauty by thy gentle hand. Bless thee, Flora, for thy fragrant offering. Hast thou aught to ask in return?
« PreviousContinue » |