Here is continual worship;-nature, here, Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 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 For ever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die-but see again, The freshness of her far beginning lies And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death-yea, seats himself And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks M But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods |