To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit behind me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance-and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late-'t was made for such a scene.
[Child speaks.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground.
And would not startle with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Wakes there some spirit here?
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices-each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Yes, lightly, softly move!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being, that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes;
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-
Thou, thou art here, my God!
And if with awe we tread
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?—whose arch and roof
Are of thy living woof.
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd—
All, all with thee are fill'd!
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognize,
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought!
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own-
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
Let me not know the change
O'er nature thrown by guilt!-the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world!
Sustain-Thou only canst-the sick at heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.
NIGHT-holy night!-the time
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!
Night! when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul,
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality;
Now hath strange sadness wrapt me-strange and deep
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll, E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep Far beyond earth's control.
Wherefore is this?-I see the stars returning,
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning-
Fast shine they forth-my spirit friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine-but faintly, through a quivering haze-
Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays?
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning-a love intense-
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessings, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am I a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
And now an alien!-wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain!
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, swelling free?
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power-
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!
And therefore from that haughty summit's crown,
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd-
Shine on him through the cloud!
Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given !
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still by that o'ershadowing might, Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chastened sight.
Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate—
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest !-I am vow'd
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
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