«"Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy, As he saw it spring bright from the earth,
And call'd the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy,
To witness and hallow its birth.
The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flam'd
Till the sun-beam that kiss'd it look'd pale :
""Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" ev'ry Spirit exclaim'd, Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"
First, fleet as a bird, to the summons Wit flew,
While a light on the vine-leaves there broke,
In flashes so quick and so brilliant, all knew
"Twas the light from his lips, as he spoke.
"Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried,
""Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys replied, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"
Next, Love, as he lean'd o'er the plant to admire
Each tendril and cluster it wore,
From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o'er.
Oh, never did flow'r of the earth, sea, or sky,
Such a soul-giving odour inhale:
""Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry, Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"
Last Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die,
Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;
And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,
When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say ;—
A laugh of the heart, which was echoed around
Till, like music, it swell'd on the gale;
"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound,
Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
When Day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the op'ning clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
From golden vistas into Heaven-
Those hues that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are thine.
When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes—
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, LORD! are thine.
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine!
FALL'N is thy Throne, O Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.
Till evil came, and blighted
Thy long-lov'd olive tree;—
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee.
Then sunk the star of Solyma-
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
While Baal reign'd as God.
"Go" said the LORD-"Ye Conquerors!
Steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements,
For they are not the LORD'S.
Till Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
Shall hide but half her dead!"
And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;
And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb—
There's nothing bright, but Heaven!
Poor wand'rers of a stormy day!
From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way-
There's nothing calm, but Heaven!
OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.
"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii.
OH, Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!
THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE,
THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murm'ring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking through.
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity.
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!
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