Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command,
From urns that never fail, through every land;
These like a deluge with impetuous force,
Those winding modestly a silent course;
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales;
Seas on which every nation spreads her sails;
The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light;
The crescent moon, the diadem of night;
Stars countless, each in his appointed place,
Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space:
At such a sight to catch the poet's flame,
And with a rapture like his own exclaim,
These are thy glorious works, thou source of good!
How dimly seen, how faintly understood !
Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,
This universal frame, thus wondrous fair;
Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought,
Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought,
Absorb'd in that immensity I see,
I shrink abased, and yet aspire to thee;
Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day,
Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display,
That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine,
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine!
LOVE OF NATURE IMPLANTED IN MAN BY THE ALMIGHTY.
"Tis born with all the love of nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound man,
Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout
Discriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of his hand, with so much art
Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,
And all can taste them: minds, that have been formed And tutored with a relish, more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.
It is a flame that dies not even there,
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city-life,
Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bosoms, quench it or abate.
The villas with which London stands begirt,
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Even in the stifling bosom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint
That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green
Is still the livery she delights to wear,
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.
What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,
The prouder sashes fronted with a range
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,
The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs.
That man, immured in cities, still retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes compensating his loss
By supplemental shifts the best he may ?
The most unfurnished with the means of life,
And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds,
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct; over-head
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
And watered duly. There the pitcher stands
GOD THE AUTHOR OF NATURE.
A fragment, and the spoutless tea pot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at nature, when he can no more.
GOD THE AUTHOR OF NATURE.
THERE lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are His,
That make so gay the solitary place,
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,
That cultivation glories in, are His.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year;
He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,
And blunts his pointed fury; in its case,
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ
Uninjured, with inimitable art;
And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next.
The Lord of all, Himself through all diffus'd,
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God. One spirit—His,
Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent, in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In Nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
THE CHRISTIAN'S ENJOYMENT OF THE WORKS OF NATURE.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and, though poor perhaps compar'd
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd,
Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say--" My Father made them all!"
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of int'rest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind,
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love
That plann'd, and built, and still upholds, a world
So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man?
JAMES HURDIS.
BORN, 1763; DIED, 1801.
THE LOVER OF NATURE'S WORKS.
The silent rook to the high wood make way
With rustling wing; to mark the wanton mouse,
And see him gambol round the primrose head,
Till the still owl comes smoothly sailing forth,
And with a shrill to-whitt breaks off his dance,
THE PRESENCE OF THE DEITY.
And sends him scouring home to hear the curr
Of the night-loving partridge, or the swell
Of the deep curfew from afar. And now
It pleases me to mark the hooting owl
Perched on the naked hop-pole--to attend
The distant cataract, or farmer's cur,
That bays the northern lights or rising moon.
And now I steal along the woody lane,
To hear thy song so various, gentle bird,
Sweet queen
of night, transporting Philomel.
And often have I stood to hear it sung,
When the clear moon, with Cytherean smile
Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot
A look of pure benevolence and joy
Into the heart of night. Yes, I have stood
And marked thy varied note, and frequent pause,
Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul
Sincerely pleased. And, oh! methought, no note
Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing
How easily the chief?
THE PRESENCE OF THE DEITY IN THE WORKS OF NATURE.
O NATURE! all thy seasons please the eye
Of him who sees a Deity in all.
It is his presence that diffuses charms
Unspeakable, o'er mountain, wood, and stream.
To think that He, who rolls yon solar sphere,
Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky;
To mark his presence in the mighty bow
That spans the clouds as in the taints minute
|