42

FOREST HYMN.

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 The generation born with them, nor seemed 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. Oh, 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,

FOREST HYMN.

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate
In these calm shades thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of thy works,
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

43

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

I SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow
A record of the cares of many a year;—
Cares that were ended and forgotten now.
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said,

In faltering accents, to that weeping train, Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?

Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,

Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast.

Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,
And leaves the smile of his departure, spread
O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head.

Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed;

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set.

His youth was innocent; his riper age,

Marked with some act of goodness, every day;
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

That life was happy; every day he gave

Thanks for the fair existence that was his;
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

And I am glad, that he has lived thus long,
And glad, that he has gone to his reward;
Nor deem, that kindly nature did him wrong,
Softly to disengage the vital cord.

When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.

45

THE RIVULET.

THIS little rill that, from the springs Of yonder grove, its curent brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again, Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet, when life was new. When woods in early green were dressed, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about, My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And crop the violet on its brim, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. Words cannot tell how bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay.