Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried, Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified All place, all time! The silence of the hills Breathes veneration:-founts and choral rills Of thee are murmuring:-to its inmost glade The living forest with thy whisper thrills, And there is holiness on every shade. Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest With dearer consecration those pure fanes, Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest, Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains Rise heavenward.-Ne'er may rock or cave possess Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.
OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.1
Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, Caressingly, about the holy ground; And warbled, with a never-dying tone, Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream, O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown, And something yet more deep. The air was fraught With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure, Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.
A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.1
Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane, And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms!—yet not alone For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer! But for their sakes who unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer, Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls for evermore!
Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.
A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light, Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
That of Aber, near Bangor.
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye, Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice, When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!
For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find, And meekly win! there feeding each young mind With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine, Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine, Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth, Upon the mountains are the feet of those Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth, For this were all thy journeyings, and the close Of that long path, Heaven's own bright Sabbath-rest, Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast.
The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves. and Shadows of Scottish Life.
OH! beautiful thou art,
Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen ! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart.
Bright lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell:
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower?
Oh! Love is most like thee,
The love of woman; quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 'Midst Life's dark sea.
And Faith-O, is not faith
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light, Still buoyantly above the billows' might, Through the storm's breath?
Yes, link'd with such high thought, Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought:
Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, As from a shrine.
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