ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN
DOWN from the blue the sun has driven,And stands between the earth and heaven,In robes of smouldering flame:A smoking cloud before him hung,A mystic veil, for which no tongueOf earth can find a name;And o'er him bends the vault of blue,With shadowy faces looking throughThe azure deep profound;The stillness of eternity,—A glory and a mystery,Encompass him around.The air is thick with golden haze,The woods are in a dreamy maze,The air enchanted seems;Have we not left the realms of care,And entered in the regions fairWe see in blissful dreams?O, what a sacred stillness broodsAbove the awful solitudes!Peace hangs with dove-like mien;She's on the earth, she's in the air,O, she is brooding everywhere—Sole spirit of the scene!And yonder youths and maidens seemAs moving in a heavenly dream,Through regions rich and rare;Have not their very garments caughtA tone of spiritual thought,A still, a Sabbath air?Yon cabins by the forest sideAre all transformed and glorified!O, surely grief nor care,Nor poverty with strife and din,Nor anything like vulgar sin,Can ever enter there!The ox, let loose to roam at will,Is lying by the water still;And on yon spot of greenThe very herd forget to graze,And look in wonder and amazeUpon the mystic scene.And yonder Lake Ontario lies,As if that wonder and surpriseHad hushed her heaving breast—And lies there with her awful eyeFixed on the quiet of the skyLike passion soothed to rest;Yon very maple feels the hush—That trance of wonder, that doth rushThrough nature everywhere—And meek and saint-like there she standsWith upturned eye and folded hands,As if in silent prayer.O Indian Summer, there's in theeA stillness, a serenity—A spirit pure and holy,Which makes October's gorgeous trainSeem but a pageant light and vain,Untouched by melancholy!But who can paint the deep serene—The holy stillness of thy mien—The calm that's in thy face,Which make us feel, despite of strife,And all the turmoil of our life—Earth is a holy place?Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,Here, in thy forest sanctuaryWe'll learn thy simple lore;And neither poverty nor pain,The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,Shall ever vex us more.
DOWN from the blue the sun has driven,And stands between the earth and heaven,In robes of smouldering flame:A smoking cloud before him hung,A mystic veil, for which no tongueOf earth can find a name;And o'er him bends the vault of blue,With shadowy faces looking throughThe azure deep profound;The stillness of eternity,—A glory and a mystery,Encompass him around.The air is thick with golden haze,The woods are in a dreamy maze,The air enchanted seems;Have we not left the realms of care,And entered in the regions fairWe see in blissful dreams?O, what a sacred stillness broodsAbove the awful solitudes!Peace hangs with dove-like mien;She's on the earth, she's in the air,O, she is brooding everywhere—Sole spirit of the scene!And yonder youths and maidens seemAs moving in a heavenly dream,Through regions rich and rare;Have not their very garments caughtA tone of spiritual thought,A still, a Sabbath air?Yon cabins by the forest sideAre all transformed and glorified!O, surely grief nor care,Nor poverty with strife and din,Nor anything like vulgar sin,Can ever enter there!The ox, let loose to roam at will,Is lying by the water still;And on yon spot of greenThe very herd forget to graze,And look in wonder and amazeUpon the mystic scene.And yonder Lake Ontario lies,As if that wonder and surpriseHad hushed her heaving breast—And lies there with her awful eyeFixed on the quiet of the skyLike passion soothed to rest;Yon very maple feels the hush—That trance of wonder, that doth rushThrough nature everywhere—And meek and saint-like there she standsWith upturned eye and folded hands,As if in silent prayer.O Indian Summer, there's in theeA stillness, a serenity—A spirit pure and holy,Which makes October's gorgeous trainSeem but a pageant light and vain,Untouched by melancholy!But who can paint the deep serene—The holy stillness of thy mien—The calm that's in thy face,Which make us feel, despite of strife,And all the turmoil of our life—Earth is a holy place?Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,Here, in thy forest sanctuaryWe'll learn thy simple lore;And neither poverty nor pain,The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,Shall ever vex us more.
DOWN from the blue the sun has driven,And stands between the earth and heaven,In robes of smouldering flame:A smoking cloud before him hung,A mystic veil, for which no tongueOf earth can find a name;And o'er him bends the vault of blue,With shadowy faces looking throughThe azure deep profound;The stillness of eternity,—A glory and a mystery,Encompass him around.The air is thick with golden haze,The woods are in a dreamy maze,The air enchanted seems;Have we not left the realms of care,And entered in the regions fairWe see in blissful dreams?
DOWN from the blue the sun has driven,
And stands between the earth and heaven,
In robes of smouldering flame:
A smoking cloud before him hung,
A mystic veil, for which no tongue
Of earth can find a name;
And o'er him bends the vault of blue,
With shadowy faces looking through
The azure deep profound;
The stillness of eternity,—
A glory and a mystery,
Encompass him around.
The air is thick with golden haze,
The woods are in a dreamy maze,
The air enchanted seems;
Have we not left the realms of care,
And entered in the regions fair
We see in blissful dreams?
O, what a sacred stillness broodsAbove the awful solitudes!Peace hangs with dove-like mien;She's on the earth, she's in the air,O, she is brooding everywhere—Sole spirit of the scene!And yonder youths and maidens seemAs moving in a heavenly dream,Through regions rich and rare;Have not their very garments caughtA tone of spiritual thought,A still, a Sabbath air?Yon cabins by the forest sideAre all transformed and glorified!O, surely grief nor care,Nor poverty with strife and din,Nor anything like vulgar sin,Can ever enter there!
O, what a sacred stillness broods
Above the awful solitudes!
Peace hangs with dove-like mien;
She's on the earth, she's in the air,
O, she is brooding everywhere—
Sole spirit of the scene!
And yonder youths and maidens seem
As moving in a heavenly dream,
Through regions rich and rare;
Have not their very garments caught
A tone of spiritual thought,
A still, a Sabbath air?
Yon cabins by the forest side
Are all transformed and glorified!
O, surely grief nor care,
Nor poverty with strife and din,
Nor anything like vulgar sin,
Can ever enter there!
The ox, let loose to roam at will,Is lying by the water still;And on yon spot of greenThe very herd forget to graze,And look in wonder and amazeUpon the mystic scene.And yonder Lake Ontario lies,As if that wonder and surpriseHad hushed her heaving breast—And lies there with her awful eyeFixed on the quiet of the skyLike passion soothed to rest;Yon very maple feels the hush—That trance of wonder, that doth rushThrough nature everywhere—And meek and saint-like there she standsWith upturned eye and folded hands,As if in silent prayer.
The ox, let loose to roam at will,
Is lying by the water still;
And on yon spot of green
The very herd forget to graze,
And look in wonder and amaze
Upon the mystic scene.
And yonder Lake Ontario lies,
As if that wonder and surprise
Had hushed her heaving breast—
And lies there with her awful eye
Fixed on the quiet of the sky
Like passion soothed to rest;
Yon very maple feels the hush—
That trance of wonder, that doth rush
Through nature everywhere—
And meek and saint-like there she stands
With upturned eye and folded hands,
As if in silent prayer.
O Indian Summer, there's in theeA stillness, a serenity—A spirit pure and holy,Which makes October's gorgeous trainSeem but a pageant light and vain,Untouched by melancholy!But who can paint the deep serene—The holy stillness of thy mien—The calm that's in thy face,Which make us feel, despite of strife,And all the turmoil of our life—Earth is a holy place?Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,Here, in thy forest sanctuaryWe'll learn thy simple lore;And neither poverty nor pain,The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,Shall ever vex us more.
O Indian Summer, there's in thee
A stillness, a serenity—
A spirit pure and holy,
Which makes October's gorgeous train
Seem but a pageant light and vain,
Untouched by melancholy!
But who can paint the deep serene—
The holy stillness of thy mien—
The calm that's in thy face,
Which make us feel, despite of strife,
And all the turmoil of our life—
Earth is a holy place?
Here, in the woods, we'll talk with thee,
Here, in thy forest sanctuary
We'll learn thy simple lore;
And neither poverty nor pain,
The strife of tongues, the thirst for gain,
Shall ever vex us more.