Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mindSees God in the clouds and hears Him in the wind.—Pope.
Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mindSees God in the clouds and hears Him in the wind.—Pope.
Within the wind, my untaught earThe voice of Deity can hear,And in the fleeting cloud discernHis movements, vast and taciturn;For in the universe I traceThe wondrous grandeur of His face.I see him in each blade of grass,Each towering peak and mountain pass;Each forest, river, lake and fenReveals the God of worlds and men;His works of wisdom prove to me,A wise, creative Deity.
Within the wind, my untaught earThe voice of Deity can hear,And in the fleeting cloud discernHis movements, vast and taciturn;For in the universe I traceThe wondrous grandeur of His face.
I see him in each blade of grass,Each towering peak and mountain pass;Each forest, river, lake and fenReveals the God of worlds and men;His works of wisdom prove to me,A wise, creative Deity.
The fragrant perfume of the flowers,Exuding in the summer hours,E'en as the altar's incense rareDisseminated through the air,May never reach the azure skies,Yet can the earth aromatize.And so the voice of secret prayer,Ascending on the wings of air,Though it should reach no listening ear,Of Deity inclined to hear,Still soothes the anguish of the mind,And leaves a tranquil peace behind.
The fragrant perfume of the flowers,Exuding in the summer hours,E'en as the altar's incense rareDisseminated through the air,May never reach the azure skies,Yet can the earth aromatize.
And so the voice of secret prayer,Ascending on the wings of air,Though it should reach no listening ear,Of Deity inclined to hear,Still soothes the anguish of the mind,And leaves a tranquil peace behind.
When passing years have streaked with frostThese tresses now as jet,When life's meridian is crossedAnd beauty's sun has set,When youth's last fleeting charm is lost,Wilt thou be constant yet,Nor time thy sentiment exhaustAnd cause thee to forget?If so—My answer, I confess,Shall be a calm, decided "Yes";But otherwise a "No"!
When passing years have streaked with frostThese tresses now as jet,When life's meridian is crossedAnd beauty's sun has set,When youth's last fleeting charm is lost,Wilt thou be constant yet,Nor time thy sentiment exhaustAnd cause thee to forget?If so—My answer, I confess,Shall be a calm, decided "Yes";But otherwise a "No"!
There is a cliff, no matter where,Which softened by the agenciesOf rain, exposure to the air,And alternating thaw and freeze,Most readily admits the edgeOf chisel, or the sharpened wedge.The travelers, while passing by,Within its shade find welcome rest;And one of them mechanically,As is a custom in the west,Upon its surface stern and grayCarved out his name, and went his way.Though inartistic and uncouth,That effort of a novice handExemplifies a striking truth,And may Time's ravages withstand,To be by future ages read,When years and centuries have fled.So on life's mighty thoroughfare,The multitude of every classLeave no inscriptions chiseled, whereTheir transient footsteps chanced to pass,And waft to each succeeding ageNo echoes from their pilgrimage.Though many pass, yet few recordTheir names in characters sublime,By grand achievement, work or wordUpon the monolith of Time;But few inscribe a lasting nameOn the eternal cliffs of Fame.
There is a cliff, no matter where,Which softened by the agenciesOf rain, exposure to the air,And alternating thaw and freeze,Most readily admits the edgeOf chisel, or the sharpened wedge.
The travelers, while passing by,Within its shade find welcome rest;And one of them mechanically,As is a custom in the west,Upon its surface stern and grayCarved out his name, and went his way.
Though inartistic and uncouth,That effort of a novice handExemplifies a striking truth,And may Time's ravages withstand,To be by future ages read,When years and centuries have fled.
So on life's mighty thoroughfare,The multitude of every classLeave no inscriptions chiseled, whereTheir transient footsteps chanced to pass,And waft to each succeeding ageNo echoes from their pilgrimage.
Though many pass, yet few recordTheir names in characters sublime,By grand achievement, work or wordUpon the monolith of Time;But few inscribe a lasting nameOn the eternal cliffs of Fame.
The leafless branch and meadow sere,The dull and leaden skies,Join with the mournful wind and drearIn dirges for the passing year,Which unreturning flies.The night in starless gloom descends,Nor can the pale moonshineBreak through the clouds whose veil extendsIn boundless form, and darkly blendsWith the horizon's line.Fond nature, in a playful mood,In cover of the night,Arrays the plain and forest rude,The city and the solitude,In robe of spotless white.
The leafless branch and meadow sere,The dull and leaden skies,Join with the mournful wind and drearIn dirges for the passing year,Which unreturning flies.
The night in starless gloom descends,Nor can the pale moonshineBreak through the clouds whose veil extendsIn boundless form, and darkly blendsWith the horizon's line.
Fond nature, in a playful mood,In cover of the night,Arrays the plain and forest rude,The city and the solitude,In robe of spotless white.
I dug a grave, one smiling April day,A grave whose small proportions testifiedTo empty arms, and playthings put away,To ears which heard, when only fancy cried;I wondered, as I shaped that little mound,If in my home such grief should e'er be found.I dug a grave, 'twas in the month of June;A grave for one who at his zenith died;When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn,The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride,I wondered if upon my silent bierShould rest the moist impression of a tear.I dug a grave by Autumn's sober light,A grave of full dimensions; 'twas for oneWhose hair had changed its raven hue to white,Whose course had finished with the setting sun;I wondered, as I toiled with pick and spade,Where, and by whom, would my last home be made.
I dug a grave, one smiling April day,A grave whose small proportions testifiedTo empty arms, and playthings put away,To ears which heard, when only fancy cried;I wondered, as I shaped that little mound,If in my home such grief should e'er be found.
I dug a grave, 'twas in the month of June;A grave for one who at his zenith died;When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn,The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride,I wondered if upon my silent bierShould rest the moist impression of a tear.
I dug a grave by Autumn's sober light,A grave of full dimensions; 'twas for oneWhose hair had changed its raven hue to white,Whose course had finished with the setting sun;I wondered, as I toiled with pick and spade,Where, and by whom, would my last home be made.
Within a vale in distant Saxony,In time uncertain, though 'twas long ago.There dwelt a woman, most unhappily,From borrowed trouble, and imagined woe.Hers was a husband generous, and kind,Her children, three, were not of uncouth mold;Hers was a thatch which mocked at rain and wind;Within her secret purse were coins of gold.The drouth had ne'er descended on her field,Nor had distemper sore distressed her kine;The vine had given its accustomed yield,So that her casks were filled with ruddy wine.Her sheep and goats waxed fat, and ample fleeceRewarded every harvest of the shear;Her lambs all bleated in sequestered peace,Nor prowling wolf occasioned nightly fear.With all she fretted, pined, and brooded sore,Harbored each slight vexation, courted grief,Shut out the smiling sunshine from her door,And magnified each care to bas relief.Still waxed her grievous burden more and more,Till, with a resolution, rash and blind,At dead of night she fled her humble door,As if to leave her grievous load behind.She journeyed as the night wore slowly on,Unmindful of the tuneful nightingale,Till in due time her footsteps fell uponA hill, the demarcation of the vale.As Lot's wife, in her flight, could not refrainFrom viewing foul Gomorrah's funeral pyre,From one last glance across that ancient plain,At guilty Sodom wreathed in vengeful fire;So when this woman reached the summit's crest,She turned her eyes in one last farewell look,The fruitful vale lay stretched in placid rest,And all was silent save the breeze and brook.The moon in partial fullness, mild, serene,Flooding the landscape with her mellow light,Illumined every old familiar scene,Brought their associations to her sight.When, lo! as if by touch of magic wand,On every roof, of tile, of thatch or wood,As instantly as magic doth respond,A cross, of various size and form there stood.O'er homes unknown to frown or grievous word,O'er homes where laughter hid the silent wail,O'er homes where discontent was never heard,Huge crosses glistened in the moonlight pale.A cross o'er every habitation rose,O'er ducal palace, and the cottage smallWhere slept the husbandman in deep repose;And, lo, her cross was smallest of them all!
Within a vale in distant Saxony,In time uncertain, though 'twas long ago.There dwelt a woman, most unhappily,From borrowed trouble, and imagined woe.
Hers was a husband generous, and kind,Her children, three, were not of uncouth mold;Hers was a thatch which mocked at rain and wind;Within her secret purse were coins of gold.
The drouth had ne'er descended on her field,Nor had distemper sore distressed her kine;The vine had given its accustomed yield,So that her casks were filled with ruddy wine.
Her sheep and goats waxed fat, and ample fleeceRewarded every harvest of the shear;Her lambs all bleated in sequestered peace,Nor prowling wolf occasioned nightly fear.
With all she fretted, pined, and brooded sore,Harbored each slight vexation, courted grief,Shut out the smiling sunshine from her door,And magnified each care to bas relief.
Still waxed her grievous burden more and more,Till, with a resolution, rash and blind,At dead of night she fled her humble door,As if to leave her grievous load behind.
She journeyed as the night wore slowly on,Unmindful of the tuneful nightingale,Till in due time her footsteps fell uponA hill, the demarcation of the vale.
As Lot's wife, in her flight, could not refrainFrom viewing foul Gomorrah's funeral pyre,From one last glance across that ancient plain,At guilty Sodom wreathed in vengeful fire;
So when this woman reached the summit's crest,She turned her eyes in one last farewell look,The fruitful vale lay stretched in placid rest,And all was silent save the breeze and brook.
The moon in partial fullness, mild, serene,Flooding the landscape with her mellow light,Illumined every old familiar scene,Brought their associations to her sight.
When, lo! as if by touch of magic wand,On every roof, of tile, of thatch or wood,As instantly as magic doth respond,A cross, of various size and form there stood.
O'er homes unknown to frown or grievous word,O'er homes where laughter hid the silent wail,O'er homes where discontent was never heard,Huge crosses glistened in the moonlight pale.
A cross o'er every habitation rose,O'er ducal palace, and the cottage smallWhere slept the husbandman in deep repose;And, lo, her cross was smallest of them all!
Once more the merry Christmas bells,Are ringing far and wide;Their chime in rhythmic chorus swells,While every brazen throat foretells,A joyous Christmastide.What is the burden of your chime,Ye bells of Christmastide?What tidings in your clangorous rhyme,What message would your tongues sublimeTo human hearts confide?Our chime is of salvation's plan,And every ChristmastideSince Christmas bells to chime, beganWe've caroled Heaven's gift to man,A Saviour crucified.
Once more the merry Christmas bells,Are ringing far and wide;Their chime in rhythmic chorus swells,While every brazen throat foretells,A joyous Christmastide.
What is the burden of your chime,Ye bells of Christmastide?What tidings in your clangorous rhyme,What message would your tongues sublimeTo human hearts confide?
Our chime is of salvation's plan,And every ChristmastideSince Christmas bells to chime, beganWe've caroled Heaven's gift to man,A Saviour crucified.
O! Sun, resplendent in the smiling morn,As thou dost view the wastes of earth and sky,Canst thou behold the realms of the Unborn,Canst thou behold the realms of those who die?Where dwells the spirit e'er its mortal birth,E'er yet it sufferethThe pain and sorrow incident to earth?Where after death?The Sun gave answer, with refulgent glow:Child of a fleeting hour, thou too must die to know.Canst tell, thou jeweled canopy of space,Bewildering, and boundless to the eyes,Knowest thou the unborn spirits' dwelling place?Knowest thou the distant regions of the skiesWhere rest the spirits freed from mundane strife,From mortal grief and care?Knowest thou the secret of the future life?Canst thou tell where?From Space infinite echoed the reply:Child of a transient day, thou too, to know, must die.Ye Winds who blow and cleave the formless skies,Ye Winds who blow with desolating breath,Can ye reveal pre-natal mysteries,And can ye solve the mystery of death?Within thy ambient and viewless foldsImprisoned in the air,May not the spirits wait their earthly moulds?Then tell ye where.The answer came invisible and low:Frail child of earthly clay, thou too must die to know.What are your tidings, O ye raging Seas?Do your waves wash the islands of the blest,Or view the Gardens of Hesperides?Know you the unborn spirits' place of rest?And do your waters lave that unknown shore?And when the night is gone,Shall the freed spirit, tired and faint no more,Behold the dawn?The sad sea murmured, as its waves rolled high:As all those gone before, thou, too, to know, must die.
O! Sun, resplendent in the smiling morn,As thou dost view the wastes of earth and sky,Canst thou behold the realms of the Unborn,Canst thou behold the realms of those who die?Where dwells the spirit e'er its mortal birth,E'er yet it sufferethThe pain and sorrow incident to earth?Where after death?The Sun gave answer, with refulgent glow:Child of a fleeting hour, thou too must die to know.
Canst tell, thou jeweled canopy of space,Bewildering, and boundless to the eyes,Knowest thou the unborn spirits' dwelling place?Knowest thou the distant regions of the skiesWhere rest the spirits freed from mundane strife,From mortal grief and care?Knowest thou the secret of the future life?Canst thou tell where?From Space infinite echoed the reply:Child of a transient day, thou too, to know, must die.
Ye Winds who blow and cleave the formless skies,Ye Winds who blow with desolating breath,Can ye reveal pre-natal mysteries,And can ye solve the mystery of death?Within thy ambient and viewless foldsImprisoned in the air,May not the spirits wait their earthly moulds?Then tell ye where.The answer came invisible and low:Frail child of earthly clay, thou too must die to know.
What are your tidings, O ye raging Seas?Do your waves wash the islands of the blest,Or view the Gardens of Hesperides?Know you the unborn spirits' place of rest?And do your waters lave that unknown shore?And when the night is gone,Shall the freed spirit, tired and faint no more,Behold the dawn?The sad sea murmured, as its waves rolled high:As all those gone before, thou, too, to know, must die.
What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast?What spectral figures mocked those staring eyes,Luring them on to Stygian mysteries?What overpowering sense of grief distressed?What desperation nerved that rigid handTo pull the trigger with such deadly aim?What deep remorse, or terror, overcameThe dread inherent, of death's shadowy strand?Perhaps the hand of unrelenting fateFell with such tragic pressure, that the mindIn frenzy, uncontrollable and blind,Sought but the darkness, black and desolate.Perhaps 'twas some misfortune's stunning blight,Perhaps unmerited, though deep disgrace,Or vision of a wronged accusing facePictured indelibly before the sight.Perhaps the gnawing of some secret sin,Some aberration fraught with morbid gloom,A buried hope which ever burst its tomb,Despondency, disaster, or chagrin.That heart which throbbed in pain and discontentIs silent as the grave for which it yearned;That brain, which once with proud ambition burned,Now oozes through the bullet's ghastly rent.Those eyes, transfixed with such a gruesome stare,Once beamed with laughter, innocent and bright;The morning gave no presage of the night;A smile may be the prelude of despair.Whate'er his secret, it remains untold,For why to human anguish add one groan?Is grief the deeper grief because unknown?So let the grave his form and burden hold.Ye who have felt no crushing weight of care,From blame profuse, in charity refrain;Some depths of sorrow overwhelm the brain,Some loads too great for human strength to bear.
What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast?What spectral figures mocked those staring eyes,Luring them on to Stygian mysteries?What overpowering sense of grief distressed?
What desperation nerved that rigid handTo pull the trigger with such deadly aim?What deep remorse, or terror, overcameThe dread inherent, of death's shadowy strand?
Perhaps the hand of unrelenting fateFell with such tragic pressure, that the mindIn frenzy, uncontrollable and blind,Sought but the darkness, black and desolate.
Perhaps 'twas some misfortune's stunning blight,Perhaps unmerited, though deep disgrace,Or vision of a wronged accusing facePictured indelibly before the sight.
Perhaps the gnawing of some secret sin,Some aberration fraught with morbid gloom,A buried hope which ever burst its tomb,Despondency, disaster, or chagrin.
That heart which throbbed in pain and discontentIs silent as the grave for which it yearned;That brain, which once with proud ambition burned,Now oozes through the bullet's ghastly rent.
Those eyes, transfixed with such a gruesome stare,Once beamed with laughter, innocent and bright;The morning gave no presage of the night;A smile may be the prelude of despair.
Whate'er his secret, it remains untold,For why to human anguish add one groan?Is grief the deeper grief because unknown?So let the grave his form and burden hold.
Ye who have felt no crushing weight of care,From blame profuse, in charity refrain;Some depths of sorrow overwhelm the brain,Some loads too great for human strength to bear.
I think when I stand in the presence of Death,How futile is earthy endeavor,If it be, with the flight of the last labored breath,The tongue has been silenced forever.For no message is flashed from the lustreless eyes,When clos-ed so languid and weary,And no voice from the darkness re-echoes our cries,In response to the agonized query!We gaze at the solemn mysterious shroudWith a vague and insatiate yearning,And perceive but the sombre exterior cloud,With our vision of no discerning.Not a whispering sound, not a glimmer of light,From that shadowy strand uncertain;But He who ordained the day and night,Framed also Death's silent curtain.
I think when I stand in the presence of Death,How futile is earthy endeavor,If it be, with the flight of the last labored breath,The tongue has been silenced forever.
For no message is flashed from the lustreless eyes,When clos-ed so languid and weary,And no voice from the darkness re-echoes our cries,In response to the agonized query!
We gaze at the solemn mysterious shroudWith a vague and insatiate yearning,And perceive but the sombre exterior cloud,With our vision of no discerning.
Not a whispering sound, not a glimmer of light,From that shadowy strand uncertain;But He who ordained the day and night,Framed also Death's silent curtain.
Hope is the shadowy essence of a wish,A fond desire which floats before our eyes;With lurid aberration, feverish,—We clutch the shadow which elusive, flies;Though at our grasp the mocking fancy flees,Hope still pursues and soothes realities.Hope, as a mirage on the desert waste,Lures the lost traveler, by a vision fairOf gushing fountains which he may not taste,Of streamlets cool depicted on the air;With tongue outstretched and parched he onward speeds,But as he moves the phantom scene recedes.In the foul dungeon or the narrow cell,The prisoner doth pace his lonely beat,And as he treads, his shackles clank a knellResponsive to each movement of his feet;Yet through his grated window, he discernsThe star of hope which ever brightly burns.A noble ship her ponderous anchor weighs,Glides from the harbor and is lost to sight;A young wife waves farewell. As many daysIn passing turn her golden tresses white,She scans the horizon through a mist of tears,Hopes for that vanished sail which ne'er appears.A galley slave in age and clime remote,Chained to his seat, unwilling plies the oar;Before his eyes fond dreams of freedom float,He hopes amid the battle's crash and roar;And as the waves the imprisoned wretches drown,Hopes, as his fetters draw him swiftly down.A mighty host in force of arms we see,With march invasive, cross a boundary line;At its approach no freemen turn and flee,Each with his life defends his family shrine;As burning homes illuminate the skyWith ghastly light, they hope and fight and die.Beside the bed where rests the pallid form,Of loved one stricken with the fever's breath,E'en when the loving hands, no longer warm,Portend the sure and swift approach of Death,Hope holds the spirit in its house of clay,And with that spirit only, soars away.The guilty wretch, for murder doomed to die,Hoped, in his dungeon as the death watch paced,Hoped, as the death cap veiled his evil eye,Hoped, as the noose around his neck was placed,Hoped, as the chaplain read his final prayer,Hoped, as he struggled in the viewless air.In the glad sunshine of life's vernal spring,Hope buoys the spirit with expectancy;Hope with her dulcet voice and fluttering wing,Sings of life's goal with siren harmony;When silvered temples tell that life declines,That goal, though yet unreached, still brightly shines.Yes! As through failure and vicissitude,We sail along with many an adverse wind,Hope plants her beacon in the tempest rude,And leads with generous radiance unconfined;And when the yawning grave receives its prey,Hope speeds the spirit on its astral way.
Hope is the shadowy essence of a wish,A fond desire which floats before our eyes;With lurid aberration, feverish,—We clutch the shadow which elusive, flies;Though at our grasp the mocking fancy flees,Hope still pursues and soothes realities.
Hope, as a mirage on the desert waste,Lures the lost traveler, by a vision fairOf gushing fountains which he may not taste,Of streamlets cool depicted on the air;With tongue outstretched and parched he onward speeds,But as he moves the phantom scene recedes.
In the foul dungeon or the narrow cell,The prisoner doth pace his lonely beat,And as he treads, his shackles clank a knellResponsive to each movement of his feet;Yet through his grated window, he discernsThe star of hope which ever brightly burns.
A noble ship her ponderous anchor weighs,Glides from the harbor and is lost to sight;A young wife waves farewell. As many daysIn passing turn her golden tresses white,She scans the horizon through a mist of tears,Hopes for that vanished sail which ne'er appears.
A galley slave in age and clime remote,Chained to his seat, unwilling plies the oar;Before his eyes fond dreams of freedom float,He hopes amid the battle's crash and roar;And as the waves the imprisoned wretches drown,Hopes, as his fetters draw him swiftly down.
A mighty host in force of arms we see,With march invasive, cross a boundary line;At its approach no freemen turn and flee,Each with his life defends his family shrine;As burning homes illuminate the skyWith ghastly light, they hope and fight and die.
Beside the bed where rests the pallid form,Of loved one stricken with the fever's breath,E'en when the loving hands, no longer warm,Portend the sure and swift approach of Death,Hope holds the spirit in its house of clay,And with that spirit only, soars away.
The guilty wretch, for murder doomed to die,Hoped, in his dungeon as the death watch paced,Hoped, as the death cap veiled his evil eye,Hoped, as the noose around his neck was placed,Hoped, as the chaplain read his final prayer,Hoped, as he struggled in the viewless air.
In the glad sunshine of life's vernal spring,Hope buoys the spirit with expectancy;Hope with her dulcet voice and fluttering wing,Sings of life's goal with siren harmony;When silvered temples tell that life declines,That goal, though yet unreached, still brightly shines.
Yes! As through failure and vicissitude,We sail along with many an adverse wind,Hope plants her beacon in the tempest rude,And leads with generous radiance unconfined;And when the yawning grave receives its prey,Hope speeds the spirit on its astral way.
AN APOSTROPHE TO THE MOON.
O, silvery moon, fair mistress of the night,Thou mellow, ever vaccilating orb,How many eons of unmeasured timeHast thou, observant from thy astral poise,Thy ever-changing station in the skies,Beheld the wastes of earth, of air and space—Ruling the waters, and the sombre night?Pale queen of night, fair coquette of the skies,Thou, who with fickle, sweet inconstancyReceives the smile from the admiring sun,And straight transmits it to the sordid earth,—How many cycles of the silent pastHast thou beheld the rise and fall of man,His proud ascendency and swift decline;His zenith and his pitiful decay;E'er he emerged from out the dismal cave,His habitation rude and primitive;E'er yet the forest trembled at his stroke,E'er his indenting chisel cleaved the stonesAnd framed the first crude human domicile?As time rolled on and human skill advancedBy almost imperceptible degreesOf slow, experimental tutorage,Along a nobler, more artistic plane,He hewed the stones in form of ornament,Sculptured device of various design,Embellishment of cunning symmetry,Man's first attempt to scale the realms of art.Thou hast beheld him on his suppliant kneel,Engaged in worship, audible or mute,Invoking thy protection and thy aid,Thy gracious favor and beatitude;With arms outstretched in reverential awe,Propitiating thee, with fervent prayerFor the remission of thy baleful stroke.Thou hast beheld his superstitious fearAnd heard his curses, and his solemn prayersAs thy dark form eclipsed the smiling sun.Thou hast beheld him fashion and adornThe gorgeous altar and the totem pole;With fervent zeal, and blind simplicity,From base materials of wood or stone,Carve out a God, then kneel and worship it.Thou, too, hast heard the slave-whip's poignant crack,The sound of avarice and turpitude,As hands unwilling plied their arduous task,Creating monuments to iron will,Human injustice, greed and servitude.Thou hast beheld him shape the pyramids,Heap up the mound and build the massive wall,Create the castle and the towering spire,The ponderous dome and stately edifice.From thy observant orbit in the skies,Did'st thou behold that sacrilegious tower,Which reared its massive form on Babel's plain,Built by misguided and presumptuous men,In vain and ineffectual attemptTo scale the heavens surreptitiously?E'er the completion of the impious pile,Thou mayest have heard, with silent nonchalance,That strange catastrophe of human speech,That dire confusion of the languages,Confounding all the tongues and dialectsTo unknown chaos of peculiar sounds.Changing the conversation of the dayTo accents strange and unintelligible,Unlike to common and accepted terms;To tones mysterious and unnatural,Conglomerated forms of utteranceWhich bore no semblance to the human voice.Some rent the air with unaccustomed wordsStriving in desperation to converse,With ears which heard, but could not understand.Some cursed, with oaths unknown to all but them,While some essayed to frame the words of prayer,Or to articulate the stern command,And one, in most supreme authority,Declaimed a ponderous regal ordinance,But heard a sea of unfamiliar sounds,Confused and desultory turbulence, and dissonance of harsh, discordant tones,Instead of due attention and applause;Nor were his words and usual forms of speechRespected by the idle, wondering craft,Which lately comprehended and obeyed.Workmen addressed each other, but conveyedNo sense of meaning in their jargonings;Nor had cognizance from the stammered tones,Answered in turn, in verbal nothingness;The crabbed cynic might no longer rail;Nor those of sober countenance discourseIn melancholy and foreboding strains;Nor light and frivolous sons of levityOn others perpetrate the humorous jest;Fathers attempted to correct their sons,Who, listening with filial reverence,Heard but unknown and strange garrulity.Some shrank in terror, as their ears discernedTheir own distorted efforts to converse;Some ran in aimless frenzy to and fro,Falling upon the earth with frantic cries;Some stood in gaping wonder, nor perceivedThe dire calamity, which bound them allIn one unbroken chain of misery.Some beat their breasts in paroxysmal woe;Some wore the driveling look of idiocy;Some lost their reason and serenely smiled;Some stalked with features imperturbable,Finding no tear nor vent for their distress;Some groaned, some shrieked, some wept in their despair,Relaxing all attempts at vocal speech;Some recognized the face but not the voiceOf some familiar friend, and grasped the hand,Spoke with the eyes, when words no longer served.Did'st thou behold that temple which aroseOn Mount Moriah's slope, the proud resultOf the endeavors of a noble race,Whose tireless energy and wondrous skillIn architecture and the various artsWere famed throughout the world; whose nimble handsCarved out the pillar and the pedestal,The column, polished and cylindrical,The slab and ornamented architraveFrom Parian marble of unblemished hue;With stately cedars from the sloping sidesOf proud but long denuded Lebanon,Erected that superb and marvelous pileWhose wondrous grandeur and imposing form,Correct proportions and true symmetryAnd perfect uniformity of shape,Beauty of contour and embellishment,Splendor of finish and magnificence,Excelled the proudest edifice of earth—A fitting tribute to the Deity?Thou hast beheld the triumphs of his skillTouched by the desolating hand of time,Crumble, disintegrate and pass away—Resolved to pristine particles of dust.His strongest castle, bold and insolent,Of warlike aspect and defiant mien,With wall and rampart unassailable,Impregnable to the assaults of man—Surrender at the mold's insidious tread.Thou hast beheldHis palace and his most exalted courtsBestrewn with fragments of the Peristyle;The broken column, slab and monolithO'erhung with pendant moss and slimy mold;Its dismal haunts and gloomy aperturesBecome the habitation of the bat,The hissing serpent and the scorpion,The basking lizard dull and indolent,And forms of reptile, foul and venomous.The throne where ruled the king with iron swayIs vacant as the empty wastes of air,Is ruled by desolation and decay.No more the sceptered voice in stern commandRings through its halls, nor can the dazzling flashOf the tiara and the diadem,The ensign and insignia of power,The emblazoned crest and jeweled coat of arms,Or proud escutcheon of illustrious nameExcite with envy or inspire with fear.The boisterous carousal and the soundOf wassail mirth, inebriate and loud,And midnight revelry, is hushed and still.Time shifts the scenes—The haughty prince and the most abject slave,Who cowered and trembled 'neath his austere glance,The fawning and ignoble sycophant,The courtier and the basest serf, have metOn equal terms beneath the silent dust.From thy celestial 'minions thou hast seenHis proudest temples sink into decay,Grim desolation and desuetude;The silent hush succeed the plaintive hymn,The anthem cease to swell in rhythmic praise,Or vaulted dome re-echo with the soundOf pipe, of organ, harp and dulcimer;The voice of sacerdotal eloquenceBecome as silent as the unborn thought;The fragrant perfume of the frankincense,The scent of swinging censor and of myrrh,Supplanted by foul odors of decay;The sacred flame extinguished and forgot,Its votaries and congregations fled;The forms who ministered and forms who knelt,The burnished altar and the hoary priest,Commingling their atoms in the dust.Thou, too, hast heard the clash of hostile arms,The blast of trumpet and the martial tread,The neigh of charger anxious for the fray,The din and the confusion of the fight,The noise and turmoil of contending hosts,The crunch of breaking bones and shrieks of pain;The angry challenge and defiant taunt,The cries of rage and curses of despair,The dying groan and gnash of clench-ed teeth,The plea for mercy, with uplifted arms,As through the bosom plunged the ruthless steel;The clank of shackles and the captives groan,As marched the vanquished forth to servitude,To ceaseless toil rewarded by the scourge;To stand within the slave marts and endureThe taunts and bear the chains of slavery.Did'st thou look down with neutral radianceOn that incursion from the Scythian plain,A surging multitude beyond the powerOf mental computation and which seemedA seething mass of spears and shapes of war,A sea of bellicose barbarity,O'erwhelming helpless and ill-fated TyreWith a resistless deluge of the sword?Or when that vast and uncomputed hordeSwept westward from the steppes of TartaryWith stern Atilla riding at its head,Leaving in ruthless Mongol truculence,Awake, both red and blackened by the torch;The scourge[F], perhaps of God, perhaps of Hell!Did'st thou not flinch when t'ward the Christian westThe fell invasion of the SaracenHeaded its course with crimson scimitar;Supplanting the mild precepts of the CrossWith those of lust, of hate and bigotry?Did'st thou not weep when proud Atlantis sunkBeneath the surging and engulfing waves,The aftermath of Earth's most tragic shock;Or when the ark, upon that greatest flood,Which from the black and pregnant heavens fell.For forty days and forty weary nights,Above the ruins of a deluged world,Floated in safety with its living freight?Did'st Thou look down in idle apathy,When grim Vesuvius, from his dormant restAwoke, in molten fury, and o'ercameWith liquid flood and scoriaceous hailThe sleeping cities which beneath him lay;Interring with such fiery burialThat neither remnant nor inhabitantEscaped from that both grave and funeral pyre;Nor vestige of their proud magnificenceRose from the scene with charred and blackened form;And rolling centuries, in passing, leftBut dim remembrance in the minds of men?Did'st thou, in age more ancient and remote,Gaze from thy poise with cold complacencyUpon the guilty cities[G]of the plain,Surcharged with lust and the extremes of sin,Which Holy Writ avers, when 'neath the showerOf well deserved combustion from the skies,They sunk in conflagration with their vice;And perishing, to ages yet to comeBequeathed a foul and blasted heritage,An infamous and execrated name?Art thou to human anguish so inuredThat thou hast neither sentiment of griefNor sense of pity for terrestrial ills?Can agonizing and heart-rending scenesRelax thy obdurate and placid faceTo semblance of emotion? Can man's woesExcite thy tranquil immobilityTo the pathetic look of tenderness,Or touch thy bosom's calm indifferenceWith profuse throbs of sympathetic ruth?Can'st thou unmoved behold the widow's tears,Or those of orphaned childish innocence,Or those which wondering infant eyes have shedOn unresponsive breasts, which nevermoreThrob with maternal warmth and suckle them?Can'st thou with cold, unsympathizing lightIlluminate the ruined maid's despairWithout the echo of a lunar groan?Hast thou no pang of sorrow or regretFor guilty man, nor tear for his distress,Or are the tides within thy moist controlThe copious weepings of thy mellow lids—Thy sea of teardrops shed for human woes?Did'st thou behold, when that most favored star,Transcending in refulgence all the orbsOf boundless and bejewelled firmament,With flash of overwhelming brilliancyPlunged through the wondering heavens, whose pale spheresIn contrast dimmed to insignificance,And gliding through the twinkling realms of space,Burst with such splendor as the envious starsHad never witnessed since the heavens stood;Halting in glory o'er Judea's plain?Halted and burned in stellar reverence,Above a fold where wrapped in swaddling clothesA new-born infant in a manger lay;In humble contrast to the throne of light,He left to tread the thorny paths of earth;In undefiled and stainless innocence,Which earth with all her foul iniquitiesMight never tarnish nor pollute with sin.Perhaps upon that sage triumvirateWhich journeyed from the famed and affluent East,In regal pomp and rich munificence,To lay their costly presents at His feetAnd worship at that new-born infant's shrine,Thou shed'st thy mellow rays and lit the wayO'er deserts to the hills of Bethlehem;Dividing honors with that prince of stars.Wert thou a witness on that selfsame nightWhen humble shepherds on Judea's hills,Watching their flocks with all attentive care,Beheld unwonted grandeur in the skies?The ordinary stars were glitteringIn unaccustomed glory, and the orbsWhich twinkle in that pale celestial trainWhich cleaves in twain the ambient universe,Had changed their milky hue to that of gold;But all the forms of stellar brilliancyMade way for that most bright and luminousWhich glowed with holy radiance, which mightNot emanate from aught but sacred star;Dispensing such serene magnificenceThat e'en the admiring heavens stood abashed.At such a sight,Though savoring more of blessing than of curse,Small marvel 'twas their unenlightened mindsWere seized with sudden and peculiar fear,So that their trembling knees together smote.And as they stoodIn awestruck trepidation and alarmThe heavens as the bifurcated doorOf some familiar, hospitable tent,Parted their gorgeous curtains and disclosedA multitude of the celestial host,Numerous beyond all efforts to compute,Solemn of countenance, yet beautifulBeyond the comprehension of the eye,Surging in such immaculate arrayOf various raiment as the stainless whiteOf snows which countless centuries have placedOn rugged Ararat's tremendous heights,Were blended in an essence!Then for a moment's timeThe heavens were silent as those forms were fair;Then instantly throughout the realms of lightWas heard a crash in sacred unison,As all the trumpets and the harps of heavenAnd all the varied instruments of earthHad burst in one grand, detonating chord;Now rose the quavering, vibratory tonesOf flageolet and solitary reed;Now as a blending of all instrumentsIn echoing harmonics, sweet and low,In soft reverberating resonance;The voice of cornet and sonorous hornBlent with the warbling accents of the fluteAnd chime of mellow bells, unknown to earth;Pæan of dulcimer and harpsichordIn combination of concordant tone,Melting the stars with dulcet symphony.But sweeter than those instruments of joy,Tuned by angelic fingers, rose the strainsOf vocal concord and mellifluence,As swelled in chorus those seraphic throatsIn falling cadence and ecstatic flight,Surpassing heaven's grandest melodyIn all that appertains to choral song!The acme of celestial harmonyWhich angel ears discerned with glad surprise;But sweeter than that song, the glad refrainWafted from angel tongues innumerable,To earth and the inhabitants thereof,"Peace! Peace on Earth, the Deity's Good Will!"Didst thou not shrink, when on Golgotha's crestThree crosses as three grizzly spectres rose,Spreading their ghastly arms protestingly,In silent malediction o'er the scene,And even nature paused and stood aghastIn shuddering horror at the awful sight,Relaxing with the trembling earthquake shockHer sympathetic tension?And when the lightning rent the canopyOf black sepulchral clouds, which like a shroudEnveloped earth on that terrific night,They lit a face compassionate and pure,E'en from beneath the cruel crown of thornsGlancing in pity, kindled not with wrathAt his tormentors, those who loved him not—The multitude which surged about the crossCursing with accents vile and crying loud,Crucify Him! Crucify Him!"Rejected and despised of men—"Earth, which hath ever slain her noblest sons,Slays also her Redeemer!Creation is but systematized decay,AndChangeis blazoned on the very skies,As in ephemeral telluric scenes,And through the whole cosmogony of worlds,Is written and rewritten!Thou who hast seen the stately mastodonRoam at his will o'er earth's prolific plains,And the unwieldy megatheriumDragging his cumbrous, disproportioned weightThrough quaternary marsh and stagnant fen;Or watched the ichthyosaurus plow the seas,Churning the waters till the glistening foamRode on the greenish undulating waves;And huge saurian and reptilian shapesAmphibious and pelagic, swim and crawl,Cleaving the waters with tremendous strokes,Writhing with foul contortions in disport,Splashing and laving in the thermal seasOf the remote and prehistoric past;Thou who hast seen them fail and pass awayShalt also shine when man has disappeared.Thou who hast seen the rank luxurianceOf vegetation flourish and decay,Vanish and pass away insensibly,Perish from off the earth which nourished it,And time supplant its rich exuberanceWith arid wastes of bleak sterility;Wilt thou look down in silent unconcernWhen countless eons of denuding timeHave rendered earth as barren as thyself,Bereft of verdure's last habiliment;When men, with all their passions and desires,Their strange combines of evil and of good,Their proud achievements and exalted aimsHave passed away forever?The universe is but a sepulcherFor worlds defunct, as earth for living forms!And thou, O Moon, who hast surveyed all thisThyself shalt be consumed with fervent heat,For e'en the firmament shall pass away.Supreme Intelligence,Thou who createst worlds and satellites,(And Who canst estimate the universe)Weighing the heavens in Thy balances,Who hast ordained the laws of cosmic spaceTo guide aright the planetary spheres;Thou Ruler of the infinite and great,Alike of vast and infinitesimal;Thou fundamental cause of all that is,In process of creation and decay,In the mutation and the ravagesSequent of constant lapse and flight of timeReveal Thy laws that we may follow them:Help us to recognize in all Thy works,Whether of atom or stupendous mass,The hand of Deity.
O, silvery moon, fair mistress of the night,Thou mellow, ever vaccilating orb,How many eons of unmeasured timeHast thou, observant from thy astral poise,Thy ever-changing station in the skies,Beheld the wastes of earth, of air and space—Ruling the waters, and the sombre night?
Pale queen of night, fair coquette of the skies,Thou, who with fickle, sweet inconstancyReceives the smile from the admiring sun,And straight transmits it to the sordid earth,—How many cycles of the silent pastHast thou beheld the rise and fall of man,His proud ascendency and swift decline;His zenith and his pitiful decay;E'er he emerged from out the dismal cave,His habitation rude and primitive;E'er yet the forest trembled at his stroke,E'er his indenting chisel cleaved the stonesAnd framed the first crude human domicile?
As time rolled on and human skill advancedBy almost imperceptible degreesOf slow, experimental tutorage,Along a nobler, more artistic plane,He hewed the stones in form of ornament,Sculptured device of various design,Embellishment of cunning symmetry,Man's first attempt to scale the realms of art.
Thou hast beheld him on his suppliant kneel,Engaged in worship, audible or mute,Invoking thy protection and thy aid,Thy gracious favor and beatitude;With arms outstretched in reverential awe,Propitiating thee, with fervent prayerFor the remission of thy baleful stroke.Thou hast beheld his superstitious fearAnd heard his curses, and his solemn prayersAs thy dark form eclipsed the smiling sun.
Thou hast beheld him fashion and adornThe gorgeous altar and the totem pole;With fervent zeal, and blind simplicity,From base materials of wood or stone,Carve out a God, then kneel and worship it.
Thou, too, hast heard the slave-whip's poignant crack,The sound of avarice and turpitude,As hands unwilling plied their arduous task,Creating monuments to iron will,Human injustice, greed and servitude.
Thou hast beheld him shape the pyramids,Heap up the mound and build the massive wall,Create the castle and the towering spire,The ponderous dome and stately edifice.
From thy observant orbit in the skies,Did'st thou behold that sacrilegious tower,Which reared its massive form on Babel's plain,Built by misguided and presumptuous men,In vain and ineffectual attemptTo scale the heavens surreptitiously?
E'er the completion of the impious pile,Thou mayest have heard, with silent nonchalance,That strange catastrophe of human speech,That dire confusion of the languages,Confounding all the tongues and dialectsTo unknown chaos of peculiar sounds.
Changing the conversation of the dayTo accents strange and unintelligible,Unlike to common and accepted terms;To tones mysterious and unnatural,Conglomerated forms of utteranceWhich bore no semblance to the human voice.Some rent the air with unaccustomed wordsStriving in desperation to converse,With ears which heard, but could not understand.
Some cursed, with oaths unknown to all but them,While some essayed to frame the words of prayer,Or to articulate the stern command,And one, in most supreme authority,Declaimed a ponderous regal ordinance,But heard a sea of unfamiliar sounds,Confused and desultory turbulence, and dissonance of harsh, discordant tones,Instead of due attention and applause;Nor were his words and usual forms of speechRespected by the idle, wondering craft,Which lately comprehended and obeyed.
Workmen addressed each other, but conveyedNo sense of meaning in their jargonings;Nor had cognizance from the stammered tones,Answered in turn, in verbal nothingness;The crabbed cynic might no longer rail;Nor those of sober countenance discourseIn melancholy and foreboding strains;Nor light and frivolous sons of levityOn others perpetrate the humorous jest;Fathers attempted to correct their sons,Who, listening with filial reverence,Heard but unknown and strange garrulity.
Some shrank in terror, as their ears discernedTheir own distorted efforts to converse;Some ran in aimless frenzy to and fro,Falling upon the earth with frantic cries;Some stood in gaping wonder, nor perceivedThe dire calamity, which bound them allIn one unbroken chain of misery.Some beat their breasts in paroxysmal woe;Some wore the driveling look of idiocy;Some lost their reason and serenely smiled;Some stalked with features imperturbable,Finding no tear nor vent for their distress;Some groaned, some shrieked, some wept in their despair,Relaxing all attempts at vocal speech;Some recognized the face but not the voiceOf some familiar friend, and grasped the hand,Spoke with the eyes, when words no longer served.
Did'st thou behold that temple which aroseOn Mount Moriah's slope, the proud resultOf the endeavors of a noble race,Whose tireless energy and wondrous skillIn architecture and the various artsWere famed throughout the world; whose nimble handsCarved out the pillar and the pedestal,The column, polished and cylindrical,The slab and ornamented architraveFrom Parian marble of unblemished hue;With stately cedars from the sloping sidesOf proud but long denuded Lebanon,Erected that superb and marvelous pileWhose wondrous grandeur and imposing form,Correct proportions and true symmetryAnd perfect uniformity of shape,Beauty of contour and embellishment,Splendor of finish and magnificence,Excelled the proudest edifice of earth—A fitting tribute to the Deity?
Thou hast beheld the triumphs of his skillTouched by the desolating hand of time,Crumble, disintegrate and pass away—Resolved to pristine particles of dust.
His strongest castle, bold and insolent,Of warlike aspect and defiant mien,With wall and rampart unassailable,Impregnable to the assaults of man—Surrender at the mold's insidious tread.
Thou hast beheldHis palace and his most exalted courtsBestrewn with fragments of the Peristyle;The broken column, slab and monolithO'erhung with pendant moss and slimy mold;Its dismal haunts and gloomy aperturesBecome the habitation of the bat,The hissing serpent and the scorpion,The basking lizard dull and indolent,And forms of reptile, foul and venomous.
The throne where ruled the king with iron swayIs vacant as the empty wastes of air,Is ruled by desolation and decay.No more the sceptered voice in stern commandRings through its halls, nor can the dazzling flashOf the tiara and the diadem,The ensign and insignia of power,The emblazoned crest and jeweled coat of arms,Or proud escutcheon of illustrious nameExcite with envy or inspire with fear.
The boisterous carousal and the soundOf wassail mirth, inebriate and loud,And midnight revelry, is hushed and still.
Time shifts the scenes—The haughty prince and the most abject slave,Who cowered and trembled 'neath his austere glance,The fawning and ignoble sycophant,The courtier and the basest serf, have metOn equal terms beneath the silent dust.
From thy celestial 'minions thou hast seenHis proudest temples sink into decay,Grim desolation and desuetude;The silent hush succeed the plaintive hymn,The anthem cease to swell in rhythmic praise,Or vaulted dome re-echo with the soundOf pipe, of organ, harp and dulcimer;The voice of sacerdotal eloquenceBecome as silent as the unborn thought;The fragrant perfume of the frankincense,The scent of swinging censor and of myrrh,Supplanted by foul odors of decay;The sacred flame extinguished and forgot,Its votaries and congregations fled;The forms who ministered and forms who knelt,The burnished altar and the hoary priest,Commingling their atoms in the dust.
Thou, too, hast heard the clash of hostile arms,The blast of trumpet and the martial tread,The neigh of charger anxious for the fray,The din and the confusion of the fight,The noise and turmoil of contending hosts,The crunch of breaking bones and shrieks of pain;The angry challenge and defiant taunt,The cries of rage and curses of despair,The dying groan and gnash of clench-ed teeth,The plea for mercy, with uplifted arms,As through the bosom plunged the ruthless steel;The clank of shackles and the captives groan,As marched the vanquished forth to servitude,To ceaseless toil rewarded by the scourge;To stand within the slave marts and endureThe taunts and bear the chains of slavery.
Did'st thou look down with neutral radianceOn that incursion from the Scythian plain,A surging multitude beyond the powerOf mental computation and which seemedA seething mass of spears and shapes of war,A sea of bellicose barbarity,O'erwhelming helpless and ill-fated TyreWith a resistless deluge of the sword?
Or when that vast and uncomputed hordeSwept westward from the steppes of TartaryWith stern Atilla riding at its head,Leaving in ruthless Mongol truculence,Awake, both red and blackened by the torch;The scourge[F], perhaps of God, perhaps of Hell!
Did'st thou not flinch when t'ward the Christian westThe fell invasion of the SaracenHeaded its course with crimson scimitar;Supplanting the mild precepts of the CrossWith those of lust, of hate and bigotry?
Did'st thou not weep when proud Atlantis sunkBeneath the surging and engulfing waves,The aftermath of Earth's most tragic shock;Or when the ark, upon that greatest flood,Which from the black and pregnant heavens fell.For forty days and forty weary nights,Above the ruins of a deluged world,Floated in safety with its living freight?
Did'st Thou look down in idle apathy,When grim Vesuvius, from his dormant restAwoke, in molten fury, and o'ercameWith liquid flood and scoriaceous hailThe sleeping cities which beneath him lay;Interring with such fiery burialThat neither remnant nor inhabitantEscaped from that both grave and funeral pyre;Nor vestige of their proud magnificenceRose from the scene with charred and blackened form;And rolling centuries, in passing, leftBut dim remembrance in the minds of men?
Did'st thou, in age more ancient and remote,Gaze from thy poise with cold complacencyUpon the guilty cities[G]of the plain,Surcharged with lust and the extremes of sin,Which Holy Writ avers, when 'neath the showerOf well deserved combustion from the skies,They sunk in conflagration with their vice;And perishing, to ages yet to comeBequeathed a foul and blasted heritage,An infamous and execrated name?
Art thou to human anguish so inuredThat thou hast neither sentiment of griefNor sense of pity for terrestrial ills?Can agonizing and heart-rending scenesRelax thy obdurate and placid faceTo semblance of emotion? Can man's woesExcite thy tranquil immobilityTo the pathetic look of tenderness,Or touch thy bosom's calm indifferenceWith profuse throbs of sympathetic ruth?Can'st thou unmoved behold the widow's tears,Or those of orphaned childish innocence,Or those which wondering infant eyes have shedOn unresponsive breasts, which nevermoreThrob with maternal warmth and suckle them?Can'st thou with cold, unsympathizing lightIlluminate the ruined maid's despairWithout the echo of a lunar groan?Hast thou no pang of sorrow or regretFor guilty man, nor tear for his distress,Or are the tides within thy moist controlThe copious weepings of thy mellow lids—Thy sea of teardrops shed for human woes?
Did'st thou behold, when that most favored star,Transcending in refulgence all the orbsOf boundless and bejewelled firmament,With flash of overwhelming brilliancyPlunged through the wondering heavens, whose pale spheresIn contrast dimmed to insignificance,And gliding through the twinkling realms of space,Burst with such splendor as the envious starsHad never witnessed since the heavens stood;Halting in glory o'er Judea's plain?
Halted and burned in stellar reverence,Above a fold where wrapped in swaddling clothesA new-born infant in a manger lay;In humble contrast to the throne of light,He left to tread the thorny paths of earth;In undefiled and stainless innocence,Which earth with all her foul iniquitiesMight never tarnish nor pollute with sin.
Perhaps upon that sage triumvirateWhich journeyed from the famed and affluent East,In regal pomp and rich munificence,To lay their costly presents at His feetAnd worship at that new-born infant's shrine,Thou shed'st thy mellow rays and lit the wayO'er deserts to the hills of Bethlehem;Dividing honors with that prince of stars.
Wert thou a witness on that selfsame nightWhen humble shepherds on Judea's hills,Watching their flocks with all attentive care,Beheld unwonted grandeur in the skies?The ordinary stars were glitteringIn unaccustomed glory, and the orbsWhich twinkle in that pale celestial trainWhich cleaves in twain the ambient universe,Had changed their milky hue to that of gold;But all the forms of stellar brilliancyMade way for that most bright and luminousWhich glowed with holy radiance, which mightNot emanate from aught but sacred star;Dispensing such serene magnificenceThat e'en the admiring heavens stood abashed.
At such a sight,Though savoring more of blessing than of curse,Small marvel 'twas their unenlightened mindsWere seized with sudden and peculiar fear,So that their trembling knees together smote.And as they stoodIn awestruck trepidation and alarmThe heavens as the bifurcated doorOf some familiar, hospitable tent,Parted their gorgeous curtains and disclosedA multitude of the celestial host,Numerous beyond all efforts to compute,Solemn of countenance, yet beautifulBeyond the comprehension of the eye,Surging in such immaculate arrayOf various raiment as the stainless whiteOf snows which countless centuries have placedOn rugged Ararat's tremendous heights,Were blended in an essence!
Then for a moment's timeThe heavens were silent as those forms were fair;Then instantly throughout the realms of lightWas heard a crash in sacred unison,As all the trumpets and the harps of heavenAnd all the varied instruments of earthHad burst in one grand, detonating chord;Now rose the quavering, vibratory tonesOf flageolet and solitary reed;Now as a blending of all instrumentsIn echoing harmonics, sweet and low,In soft reverberating resonance;The voice of cornet and sonorous hornBlent with the warbling accents of the fluteAnd chime of mellow bells, unknown to earth;Pæan of dulcimer and harpsichordIn combination of concordant tone,Melting the stars with dulcet symphony.
But sweeter than those instruments of joy,Tuned by angelic fingers, rose the strainsOf vocal concord and mellifluence,As swelled in chorus those seraphic throatsIn falling cadence and ecstatic flight,Surpassing heaven's grandest melodyIn all that appertains to choral song!The acme of celestial harmonyWhich angel ears discerned with glad surprise;But sweeter than that song, the glad refrainWafted from angel tongues innumerable,To earth and the inhabitants thereof,"Peace! Peace on Earth, the Deity's Good Will!"
Didst thou not shrink, when on Golgotha's crestThree crosses as three grizzly spectres rose,Spreading their ghastly arms protestingly,In silent malediction o'er the scene,And even nature paused and stood aghastIn shuddering horror at the awful sight,Relaxing with the trembling earthquake shockHer sympathetic tension?And when the lightning rent the canopyOf black sepulchral clouds, which like a shroudEnveloped earth on that terrific night,They lit a face compassionate and pure,E'en from beneath the cruel crown of thornsGlancing in pity, kindled not with wrathAt his tormentors, those who loved him not—The multitude which surged about the crossCursing with accents vile and crying loud,Crucify Him! Crucify Him!
"Rejected and despised of men—"Earth, which hath ever slain her noblest sons,Slays also her Redeemer!
Creation is but systematized decay,AndChangeis blazoned on the very skies,As in ephemeral telluric scenes,And through the whole cosmogony of worlds,Is written and rewritten!
Thou who hast seen the stately mastodonRoam at his will o'er earth's prolific plains,And the unwieldy megatheriumDragging his cumbrous, disproportioned weightThrough quaternary marsh and stagnant fen;Or watched the ichthyosaurus plow the seas,Churning the waters till the glistening foamRode on the greenish undulating waves;And huge saurian and reptilian shapesAmphibious and pelagic, swim and crawl,Cleaving the waters with tremendous strokes,Writhing with foul contortions in disport,Splashing and laving in the thermal seasOf the remote and prehistoric past;Thou who hast seen them fail and pass awayShalt also shine when man has disappeared.
Thou who hast seen the rank luxurianceOf vegetation flourish and decay,Vanish and pass away insensibly,Perish from off the earth which nourished it,And time supplant its rich exuberanceWith arid wastes of bleak sterility;Wilt thou look down in silent unconcernWhen countless eons of denuding timeHave rendered earth as barren as thyself,Bereft of verdure's last habiliment;When men, with all their passions and desires,Their strange combines of evil and of good,Their proud achievements and exalted aimsHave passed away forever?
The universe is but a sepulcherFor worlds defunct, as earth for living forms!And thou, O Moon, who hast surveyed all thisThyself shalt be consumed with fervent heat,For e'en the firmament shall pass away.
Supreme Intelligence,Thou who createst worlds and satellites,(And Who canst estimate the universe)Weighing the heavens in Thy balances,Who hast ordained the laws of cosmic spaceTo guide aright the planetary spheres;Thou Ruler of the infinite and great,Alike of vast and infinitesimal;Thou fundamental cause of all that is,In process of creation and decay,In the mutation and the ravagesSequent of constant lapse and flight of timeReveal Thy laws that we may follow them:Help us to recognize in all Thy works,Whether of atom or stupendous mass,The hand of Deity.
FOOTNOTES: