FROM A POEM" ON THE MEDITATION OF NATURE."
Of Nature's pure philosophy I sing :—
And my entire devotion and the flame
Of quenchless love upon her altar fling;
For she has ever been to me the same
Unchanging parent, generous and kind;
And all its better nourishment my mind
Draws from her bosom, and my heart would be
Cold as an iceberg of the northern sea,
If, when I gaze on her undying forms,
I did not speak the gratitude which warms
The flowing water of its deepest fountains.
Her quiet vales and her majestic mountains,
Her angry seas, that struggle with the wrath
Of the fierce tempest, rushing from the sky
To rend the earth in his destructive path,
Or flash revenge from his dark shrouded eye,-
Her still lakes, sleeping in the starlight beams,
Her warring cataracts, her peaceful streams,
The boundless prairie where the eagle soars,
The solemn grandeur of her ancient woods,
The haggard rocks that guard her bending shores,
Her green retreats and leafy solitudes,
All fill my soul with reverential awe;
For every where I read the changeless law
That tells its immortality!
Let us go forth and hold communion sweet
With the invisible spirit that surrounds
Earth's silent altars-let us go forth to greet
The woven strain of most enchanting sounds
That stir the clear waves of the golden air;
Let us go forth and mutely worship there!
From life's unvarying round, oh let us steal
Some fleeting moments we may call our own,
When, unrestrained, the heart can deeply feel
The quiet happiness to be alone.
Alone with Nature in some voiceless glen,
Or by some forest brook, or on the height
Of some uprising hill-away from men,
The city's busy tumult and the sight
Of all the sons of pleasure and of pain,
Where the free soul must feel its human chain.
Then, if within our hearts reflected lie
The perfect glories of the earth and sky,
If every feeling they inspire be fraught
With the pure essence of exalted thought,
Well may we deem, that round each bosom's throne
Float the white robes of Innocence alone!
The man, who cannot see the light divine
Which circles round creation's altar-shrine,
Can, through his tuneless spirit, never feel
The magic sweetness of her spirit steal:-
And though upon the sapphire arch above
Glowed the bright beacons of eternal love,
Vain, vain would be our ardent search to find
One star-beam mirrored on the sceptic's mind!
Behold the sun in his imperial height,
Beneath his eye uncounted planets lay-
Wide o'er creation pours his lavish light,
From the beginning he has ruled the day.
How kingly is his sceptre! see him wave
Its lustre o'er the firmament-and where
Fly the wild tempest-clouds? deep in a grave
Of rosy vapour falls th' expiring air,
And o'er the east the rainbow's arch is thrown,
While sinks the Day-god, gorgeous and alone!
There's glory in his setting—but the time,
When, like a monarch, from his throne sublime
He gazes
o'er the world in mightiest power
Is in the silence of his rising hour.
On all alike his equal radiance streams;
The humblest flower receives his earliest beams,
The smallest fountain revels in his ray,
Beneath his glance old ocean's billows play ;
His smiles upon the lowliest valley rest,
And proudly glisten on the mountain's crest,
He looks as sweetly on the cottage home
As on the splendor of a regal dome ;
And each faint star, that gems the distant sky,
Drinks the full lustre of his glorious eye!
Oh, when to rest the wearied day retires,
How, on God's temple, burn the unwasting fires!
Pure, soft and still, each in its own blue sphere,
As when at first the mighty Maker framed
The bending arch, and bade its gleams appear
Where the great sun had through the ether flamed.
For ever beautiful! for ever bright!
What is your hidden mystery? do ye stream
From the clear fountains of celestial light,
And each to earth display a broken gleam
Of Heaven's immortal glory? are ye strown
Along the borders of that fadeless shore,
Which lies beyond those depths unseen, unknown,
To light the course of angel-plumes, that soar
High through your rainbow-coloured atmosphere?
Or are ye brilliant melodies-embodied forms
Of thrilling sound made so divinely clear-
Bright tones from lips that inspiration warms?
Or, as such perfect loveliness ye fling,
With hope and joy the spirit to inspire,
Are ye not glimpses of those chords that string,
In glittering order, Heaven's melodious lyre ?
On the free waters let your vision dwell;
See how they flash beneath the golden ray!
Hark, how they murmur-as their surging swell
Breaks at your feet and slowly rolls away!
Like nodding plumes and helms and glistening spears,
The serried waves come rushing o'er the main ;
Then, like a host, subdued by sudden fears,
They scatter brokenly to charge again!
Where the horizon meets the glimmering sea,
What fragile mists are floating!-Look, once more
A sail! a sail! and yet it cannot be
'Tis but a sea-bird that doth lightly soar;
And where yon billows, like strown diamonds, gleam,
I soon shall hear his shrill, rejoicing scream!
And can such radiant beauty ever wear
The shadow of the tempest? Will its proud And vengeful rider, in deep midnight tear
The folded blackness of the thunder-cloud,Unchain his lightnings and arouse these waves, Which now are whispering to the peaceful deep Or calmly resting in their hidden caves,
To leap like lions startled from their sleep? The whirlwinds wrestle and the billows rage, And yet God holds them in his hollow palm; He frowneth war-in conflict they engage:He smileth peace and lo! there is a calm.
Change-change-the fate of each created thing!
Change, swift and constant change, the seasons bring.
Mark how they change!-upon the summer's brow
Twine clustering wreaths of golden-crested grain,
The ripened fruit drops slowly from the bough,
Stirred by the gale that breathes along the plain.
Then bounteous autumn yields her liberal stores,
The tired labourer to bless and cheer,
And from her lap in glad profusion pours
Her copious gifts to crown the perfect year.
Then are the leaves all tinged with vermeil dyes,
And withering fall upon the faded grass,
And o'er the azure of the changing skies
Pale fleeting mist and drifting vapor pass.
Stern winter comes to scatter over earth
High crests of snow and jewels icy-cold;
And manhood seeks his dear, domestic hearth,
Where glow affections which are never old.
Then spring, with all her bird-like melodies,
And rose-leaves twined 'mid her dishevelled hair,
Stirs the young foliage of the forest trees,
And with soft radiance paints the stilly air.
And there are lesser changes-Heaven is pure
To day-no scattered mists its smiles obscure-
To-morrow comes-and one continual cloud
Throws o'er the green earth an unbroken shroud-
To-day we taste the morning's dewy breath,
To-morrow brings disease, and pain, and death-
To-day we drink the blushing cup of health,
And see its waters sparkling soft and clear;
To-morrow comes the Pestilence by stealth,
Robed in thick darkness, heralded by Fear!
THE SWALLOWS AND THE FEATHER OF DOWN.
"I beseech you look well to it; for there is more in it than meets the eye. It has a moral, if you can find it out.”— Anon.
THE scene of the present sketch is a meadow, through which flows a lively stream. The time is the commencement of spring. The climate is more southern than ours.
A lovely morning it is; the sky is cloudless, and the sun is cheered in his course by the birds. The wild flowers feel that their enemy is conquered, and they rear aloft their delicate and fragile forms, anxious partakers of the general joy. The bullfrog seated on the
mo ssy bank fails not to express his delight. The catbird, forgetful of his name, pours forth a song of excelling sweetness, whose notes as mellow and powerful as those of the Thrasher and Mocking bird." He charms his mate while at her labour of love. The odious cry of the cat comes not to him, except with the cares of housekeeping. Ever sweet and amiable are the tones of the loverah! who but seldom hears such from the husband and father!
Far above, the wild geese are winging their way to a more congenial clime-scarcely visible save by a dark line against the sky, yet are their hoarse but not unmusical notes distinctly heard. From the breast of their leader, a hero of many regions and of many ages, a feather of Down is loosened. Let us follow it and mark its lot.
There is no air stirring, and the feather of Down floats listlessly towards the earth: after a while it approaches the meadow. It is observed by a swallow of a century.
"Ah ha!" cries the old one, " since the year one have I not laid eyes on so fine a prize." He flies to the stream, and as he skims along the surface, he dips his beak in the water, that he may not soil the inestimable gem.
But ere he had reached the rivulet, another swallow, who had seen but two summers and raised but one brood, is likewise charmed with the sight of the feather.
"Ha, ha!" says he, "last year my mate complained that I did not half feather my nest. Was ever any thing so fortunate?" He flies to the stream to dip his beak in the water, that he might not soil the feather of down.
How! another swallow? Yes-a young lover, full of joy and hopes, appears on the scene of action. He has been roving in search of prizes since the morn has scattered its sparkling gems over forest and field, but as yet his flight has been futile-nought uncommon has he found. He sees the feather and the swallows, who are just rising from the stream.
"Ah, ha!" exclaimed he, "shall not I, for the love of my mate, engage in the strife?"
Not stopping to wet his beak that he may not soil the feather of down, he carries off the prize.
Onward flies he-onward, and onward; when ah! luckless Fate ! he is spied by a sportsman, who, anxious to show that the inactivity of the winter has not diminished his skill, raises his gun, and the fond lover lies dead on the ground.
A wren comes, and from the beak of the dead swallow bears away to his own humble box, The Feather of Down.
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