Where thy faint praises mingle with that throng, Who rest not from their hallelujahs morn or even, To whom the glorious palm of victory is given.
Happy the day, whose hours are thus begun ;
A day from storms, and every tempest, free, Though clouds may rise, the splendour of the sun Will make the darkness and the shadows flee, As mist from mountain tops when they the morning
Happy the day,-there's promise in its close;
A brighter promise than the morning gave;
For when its sunset o'er creation throws
A lustre, and then sparkles on the wave,
Its parting beam shall rest all glorious on thy grave.
THEN raise the song, the gen'ral anthem raise,
And swell the concert of eternal praise!
Assist, ye orbs that form this boundless whole,
Which in the womb of space unnumber'd roll;
Ye planets who compose our lesser scheme,
And bend, concertive, round the solar frame;
Thou eye of nature! whose all-gladd'ning ray
With endless charms adorns the face of day;
Consenting, raise th' harmonious, joyful sound
And bear His praises through the vast profound!
His praise, ye winds that fan the cheerful air,
Swift as they pass along your pinions bear!
His praise let ocean through her realms display,
Far as her circling billows can convey!
His praise, ye misty vapours, wide diffuse
In rains descending, or in milder dews;
His praises whisper, ye majestic trees,
As your tops rustle to the gentle breeze!
His praise around, ye flow'ry tribes, exhale
Far as your sweets embalm the fragrant gale:
His praise, ye dimpled streams, to earth reveal,
As pleased ye murmur through the flow'ry vale.
His praise, ye feather'd choirs, distinguish'd sing,
As to your notes the vocal forests ring!
His praise proclaim, ye monsters of the deep
Who in the vast abyss your revels keep!
Or ye, fair natives of our earthly scene,
Who range the wilds, or haunt the pastures green! Nor thou, vain lord of earth, with careless ear The universal hymn of worship hear!
But ardent in the sacred chorus join,
Thy soul transported with the task divine!
While by His works the Almighty is confess'd
Supremely glorious, and supremely bless'd!
S. BOYSE, 1708-1749.
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
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 offer'd 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 sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd
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.
Hath rear'd 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, massive, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker.-Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks
Rustle, nor jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings shew
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of Thy fair works. But Thou art there-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 tranquillity 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 visits the strong 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 perfections.-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 that proud old world beyond the deep,
Ere wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him.-Nestled at his root
In 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, finish'd, yet renew'd For ever. Written on Thy works I read The lesson of Thine 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.-Oh! 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
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