98

THE DYING RAVEN.

I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have No fields, nor gather into garners-I

Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.

And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long,
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, that will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,

Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade
In living man.

Who scoffs these sympathies,

Makes mock of the divinity within;

Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul,

The universal spirit.—Hear it cry,

"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!

How deaden thee to universal love,

And joy of kindred with all humble things—
God's creatures all!"

And surely it is so.

He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,

In signs mysterious, written what alone

Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird.

HYMN OF NATURE.

BY W. 0. B. PEABODY.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie: The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky: The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,

Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, "Depart in peace."

GOD of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,

100

HYMN OF NATURE.

That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

GOD of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry—
Breathe forth the language of thy power

GOD of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

GOD of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright

HYMN OF NATURE.

In the warm day's unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

GOD of the world! the hour must come
And Nature's self to dust return;

Her crumbling altars must decay

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;

But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

101

'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse:

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;