The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

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
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me,
at least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 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 boast of our vain race to change the form
Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here.-
Thou fill'st

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

That run along the summit 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
ground,

The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with
Thee:

Here is continual worship;-nature, here,
In the tranquility that Thou dost love.
Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring that, midst its
herbs,

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 Almost annihilated,-not a prince,

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,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle

hate

Of his arch-enemy,-Death,-yea, seats himself

Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre,
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

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived

which

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,
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 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,

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.
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,

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,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the
woods

And drowns the villages; when, at Thy call,
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities, who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power,
His prides, and lay his strifes and follies

by?