Thus swells into a wave the infant curl,
Behold it first its murmuring length unfurl,
Tinged with the hoarded azure of the deep,
Now, self-involved and melting in mid sweep,
It mocks the eye-now from the unfathom'd breast
Of ocean heaves on high its boiling crest,
Like a tall steed caparison'd for day;
Bright in its foamy mane the sunbeams play,
Each lesser surge absorb'd it makes its own,
Till the gorged despot grimly towers alone;
Now like some time-worn fabric's toppling height,
Or chariot shatter'd in its headlong flight,
Its proud, precarious elevation won,
It rocks; a shiver'd star—a bursten sun,
It falls; and hurling broken splendours round,
In radiant ruin lights the vast profound.
Lord! look upon the earth! tenderly pale,
Strikes the first daybeam on her misty veil;
Slow yields the night, and on the mountain's head,
Like folded mantles, cower the clouds, or shred
By day's impetuous wing, like trophied wreaths,
In the orient flutter to each wind that breathes;
They wave empurpled, or, in rainbows dyed,
Drape his vermilion couch outstretching wide,
As streams the royal ensign from the mast,
When clears the ship for fight, and hope of peace hath
pass'd.
Pale, through the reeking city's dusky pall,
Slants the descending beam, as loath to fall;
Not so the cottage, in its tranquil nook,
Catches the wakening dawn's reluctant look ;
Blest home of innocence and thought serene,
Rich o'er its roof, embower'd, floods the sheen,
And, thence reflected, chases from yon hill
The loitering shades that mar the daylight still.
The lambs are awake, the birds sing in the brake,
And the babe in his cradle is lisping;
Man mingles his voice with the winds that rejoice,
O'er the waters their light breath is crisping; Every blade yields a song, as the breeze sweeps along, Every insect in sunshine is chanting,
And the bell's iron tongue the deep question hath rung, "In this hour shall devotion be wanting?"
All is life-all is light-all is wakefulness round,
'Tis the Morn with her own living diadem bound,
And the earth pours all sounds in one anthem above,
To God's shadow-the emblem of life and of love.
New suns o'er every moment fling,
Blushing, their first-born ray;
New worlds to life each moment spring,
To catch the gushing day;
The heavens laugh out with a joyous voice—
Each infant star, awaking,
Hears thousand stars rejoice,
And into music breaking,
Pours along the listening skies,
Melody that never dies
New suns, new worlds, in swift succession born;
Each hour Thou lookest upon,
To Thee is a new dawn,
Eternity to Thee one bright, rich, teeming morn.
Mount, then, ye birds! roll, waves-
-your vapoury sail
Expand, ye mists-blend, voices-scents, exhale-
Sigh earth, enwrapt-man, lift thy soul with awe-
All things, adore-fulfil your nature's law!
Mount to your God-mount upward-higher still,
The sunshine bathes you, kindled by His will,
Waft meetly man's oblation to His throne;
Where is 't? above? below?-His power doth fill
All space-pervading, absolute, alone!
And thou, bright day, whose earliest accents rise
To Him who pour'd thee o'er the purpling skies,
Thou that to Him, time's brief dominion past,
Must trembling render full account at last,
Night, from whose womb thou camest, recalleth thee,
To mingle with the past eternity.
THERE IS A DEEP LOW MUSIC.
THERE is a deep low music on the wind,
Sounding at intervals, when all is still,
Heard only by the pure in heart, who find
Joy in their daily tasks, doing their Maker's will.
Be they in velvet clad, or russet stole,
In hall, or hut, theirs is that low sweet chime; Solemn, yet cheerful,—speaking to the soul Of joys that rest not in this stranger clime.
Loud music cannot quench it ; nor the sound
Of mighty voices, like the mingled roar
Of tossing waves, that with delirious bound
Leap onward, in their fury, to the shore.
Nor yet the jarring sounds of bustling strife,
Where weary footsteps toil, in quest of gain,
In dusty marts, 'mid sickening scenes of strife,
Till the worn spirit longs for rest in vain.
Yet few do hear it: either ease or pride,
Or thoughts unholy, folly, grief, or crime,
'Whelming the soul beneath their rushing tide,
Hindereth the coming of that low sweet chime.
Men's hearts are heavy, or they would not slight
Their spirits' oneness with so pure a strain,—
Though faint, as when the far off torrent's might
Seems as a murmur stealing o'er the plain.
From source far mightier comes that low sweet sound,
Than deep, deep waters, thundering on the ear:—
From harps, and mingled voices, that resound
With anthem high, through heaven's eternal year.
MISS ROBERTS.
O THOU, THE FIRST, THE GREATEST FRIEND!
O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heaved their heads,
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at Thy command:
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