University of Virginia Library

EVENINGTHOUGHTS.

Awake my soul! not silent shouldst thou be,
When all around is adoration — Hark!
The Vesperhymn of Evening, rises soft,
And soulawaking from the ends of Earth;
From the four quarters of the Winds, from all
That has a sense, and where is that has not,
From yon' bright Stars, down to the Glowworm here,
Of thee, allbounteous, Eternal God,
Allseeing eye, that lookëst in thy Love
Over all shapes and modes of Being; thou
That hallowest the meanest thing on Earth,
With signs and tokens of a Wisdom, which,
As snatches of sweet harmony suggest
The perfect Whole, of which they are but parts,
Flashes upon our dark and groping sense
Convictions high, and rays of purest Light!
Oh! let thy blessing be upon me now
And evermore; and as this dew descends
From heavën, fresh on these sweet flowers here
Bowed gently down to Earth, as if in Prayer,
In still Thanksgiving; tho' they have no Tongue,
Yet in their silence far more eloquent
Than Solomon, thus teaching to proud man,
A lesson of sublime humility!
They wait for their refreshment, if to day
It come not, yet to morrow 't will: and if
Not then, whene'er it be, 't will be in «His»
Good season, fittest, wisest, best! Oh thus
Then let the spiritsdew descend on me,
Awaiting meekly, whether it may be,
The third hour or the ninth; for oft it most
Falls on us when we least expect it, as
On these sleepfolded Flowers— let but Faith
Uphold us then, and it will never fail!
For God forsakes not tho' He tests and tries
His true Heartworshippers; when least they deem,
He's with them, and within them, and all round;
Oft in the windstirred Leaf, the meanest Flower
That springs beneath our feet, he speaks unto
The Heart that loves him, while th' Incredulous
Hears but the common wind, sees but a flower,
A little painted flower 'neath his feet,
And hears no oracle that tells of Good,
Of Selfcontent, and Peace, and Blessedness
Existing 'neath the troublous, changeful form
Of outward things, as at the Ocean's Heart
Sleeps waveless Calm, while storms the surface shake;
Of outward things, through which the Eye of faith
Alone can pierce unto the Centretruth,
Where beats the soul of Harmony and Love,
Of which our own are but pulsations, still
Stronger or weakerunisoned, as from,
Or to, our Being's End and Aim we move;
Concentric or eccentric, as the small
Within the greater wheel of this vast sphere,
With which we are bound up in one wise scheme
Of endless and indissoluble being!
Allmother Earth, whose child I am, and ye
Spirits that track the earthroundgirdingbelt
Of Oceanwaves, which grasp this bounded World,
As Faith would grasp Eternity; and ye
That wake sweet Echo on the printless sands,
Which have been, and may be again, the shores
Of mighty Empires, unto which the wave's
Shipcradling bosom wafts in foamy scorn
The conquestwingëd Fleets, that proudly bear
The spoils of Nations, oft stormstrewn by thee,
Thou azurebrowed and timeunchangëd Main,
When at the Eternal's Voice thou puttest forth
Thy Might, and scarce a Bubble marks their Grave.
These Shores, nightmantled, which are now all left,
A Playground unto you and yours— and ye,
That where the Rainbow rests do love to quaff
The Dewwine fresh from out the Flowercups,
One Drop of which mixed with the Wildbee's mead,
'Gives him a summertide of Bliss; and ye
Ye hilltophaunting Nymphs, ye seacave Fays,
That make the Echos hoarse with answering,
And ye, the mossy Fountainguardians,
That woo bright Moombeams to your chosen spring,
To fresh the wave for favoured Poetslip,
Ye too, Oakelves, Woodfays, and Wildheathsprites,
That fright the Traveller with harmless Pranks;
And ye that on the moonkissed Midnightwave
Dance to its soullike Motion with young Glee;
Airsprites, that on the Setsunsdownslopebeam,
Chace the goldfeathered Foambirds, as they dip
Their snowplumed Wings amid the seething brine,
Less white than they! and ye, wavecradled tribes,
Innumerous as motes, that down the West
Float in the glorious suntrack as he sinks,
Anthemed by spherematemusic, to far worlds
Lightbearing orb: tuning the harmonies
Of Worlds, that starrëd round his Gloryzone,
Move at his voice and bidding, and bear on
The Seasons and their Changes to far Lands,
With Interchange of good and ill, of light
And darkness; weaving on their mystic course
The manymeshëd fatewoof: the birthhour
Of kingdoms, framed from oldworld Fragments, and
The Fall of Thrones, and Darkening of suns
And systems, thro' immeasurable space!
Ye Spirits, one and all, ye I invoke,
With voice of adoration: for with ye
The Soul hath its communion; ye bring
To the worldwearied spirit thoughts of peace,
And tidings of a faroff Home, of peace,
Beneath these Surfacechanges, calm and deep,
Subsisting in the universal Heart
Of which our own Heart is a pulse, tho' oft
It beat with feverish wishes and vain Fears,
Discordant from its Source and End; oh yes!
Spirits as ye, tho' cooped in this Clayhouse,
We are as thoughtunlimited as ye,
Tho' spacebound far on this side of our hopes;
And in such viewless Intercourse we have
Yearnings, Heartyearnings, to be e'en as ye,
Free o' the Air, Earth, Ocean, as that Thought
Which is undying in us; in whose Might,
Tho' not yet freed, we still can mix with ye,
And to the Mindseye body forth your shapes,
Allviewless tho' ye be: for spirit yearns
Tow'rds Spirit, and are we not Spirits too?
Ye are but parts as we are even now
Of that allseeing, wise Intelligence,
Unborn, Undying, Allencompassing,
Coliving wth each living thing wherein
A Soulspark kindles, or a hope is felt,
For Something better than the passing shows
Of this vain Timescene, which is but a Dream,
Tho' it seem as if real, for still we sleep!
Hear me, ye spirits, let my young voice be
Heard in your Mornthanksgivings, in your Hymns
Of Vespervoices which along the Leaves,
The dewmoist leaves pass to Eternity;
Whenever on the one eternal God
Ye call in wordless prayer, let my Voice too
Mingle with yours, not alldiscordantly;
Whether above the orient wave of Light,
Dancing, ye hymn the coming Daygod on,
Or o'er the midnightdeeps, when all is still,
Save the wave whispering his playmatewave
Spheremusicsecrets, and on widespread Wing
Sits Heavenly Meditation, brooding o'er,
Dovelike, the Universe, your voices lift
Their Undersong of neverwearied praise,
To the allbounteous Giver of all Good!
Oh in whatever Place, whatever Time,
At Morn, or dewy Eve, or Middayheat,
On land or sea or air, oh let my voice
Be heard with yours, and not unworthily,
Ethereal tho' ye be: for in such hymn,
The meanest voice is tuned by Love and Faith,
And cannot be discordant tunëd thus!
Yet once more for another boon I ask;
When in the weekday fret, and strife of this
Dark World, my spirit sinks, Oh then bring back
Upon your unseen Wings, the Dews of youth,
The Freshness of the Heart, the eversweet,
The pure imaginings of youth, which keep
The soul from blight, and are as a fresh spring
Of Life, amid the desert of this World!