GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. T FOREST HYMN. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. HE groves were God's first temples, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Let me, Offer one hymn,-thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. 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. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride, Report not. No fantastic carvings show The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Here is continual worship;-nature, here, Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the 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 perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak, By whose immovable stem I stand and seem In all that proud old world beyond the deep, Thy hand hath 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, 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 own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die; but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses,-ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of Earth's charms! Upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, hate Of his arch-enemy,-Death,-yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God! when Thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, woods And drowns the villages; when, at Thy call, by? |