University of Virginia Library

THE WOODWALK IN THE SOUTH.

It was an antique Wood of untold Growth,
Primeval Shades! not by the busy Hand
Of Mortal planted, but by Nature's self,
As is her Wont, when she luxuriates
In all her boundless Wealth, and scatters round,
With more than Fancy's rich Variety,
Her neverending Multitude of Hues
And Fairyshapes, yet all in perfect Taste
And Keeping with her comprehensive Plan.
The Wood, with living Verdure dense, stretched far
In sightoutreaching Loveliness, o'er Hill,
And Dale, and Rock: and where the Eye could trace
The ridgelike Heavings of the changeful Earth,
In Waves of Vegetation, as it were,
The Greenery flowed on: 'till o'er its Skirts,
The deep blue Heavens in sweet Contrast, where
The rosy Flush of Sunset lingered still,
Brooding shut out all View of Scenes beyond.
The Stars were gathering: one by one they broke
The balmy Twilight, like to Eyes of Love,
Full of deep Meanings to the thoughtfull Heart;
For all Things have their Mission, and are fraught
With gentle Visitations to the Soul
That links them with the one great Cause of all!
But of a brighter Beam, more calm and clear,
They seemed to me, than when from this dim Earth
Beheld, this Earth by its own Mists made dim.
And my Soul spake to me: how stilly God.
Accomplishes his Wonders! see yon Stars,
So countless, that Imagination sinks
Oppressed by merest Fact! that what the Eye,
Thro' the farreaching Glass, takes in, can scarce
Find Room within Man's Brain, Man's narrow Brain!
And yet he thinks to grasp the God who made
These Wonders, when the Wonders themselves are
Beyond Conception! so that Wonder, no
More capable of itself, grows to doubt
That which it sees, outwondered of itself!
And yet how stilly all moves on, so still,
That but to pluck a Dayseye from the Grass,
Makes more noise than the Setting of a Star!
So stilly works He out the Godlike, so
Sublimely, modestly, that we, we Men,
Not comprehending aught so unlike what
We feel and do, forget that He exists:
Because he is not little like ourselves,
We disbelieve the Godlike that he is!
Because He does not every Day appear,
As in the Firebush, and on a Scale
Adapted to our Faculties work out
Some little Wonder, (and what was the Bush,
But as a Spark from out the Blaze of his
Unutterable Glory?) He is no
More God forsooth! and does he not each Day,
In far, far other than the Firebush
Appear to Faith's clear Eyes? does He not shine
And glow thro' this whole World, thro' countless Worlds,
Scattered like Sparks of Glory o'er the Sky?
But it demands the Eye of God himself
To see this Wonder as it is! that so
Sublimelymodest Eye, which will not look
On its own Glory, and which watching still,
Looks on the least Worm crawling in the Dust
Rather than on itself! for even God
Keeps not his Eye fixed on himself: and yet
'Twere pardonable in him so to do,
Were he not God!—and if it be not then
Excusable in Him to do so, be-
Cause he is God, how much less so in Man,
Because he's Man'! so measurelessly less
Than God, whose sublime Modesty exalts
Him above all his Creatures, more than all
His Might and Glory! who shows forth in them
His Power, as if it were but something
Inherent in themselves, and not of Him!
But Man, Man understands not how God works:
For 'till he is himself godlike, how can
He comprehend the Godlike?—he it is
Who keeps his Eye fixed ever on himself,
And being little that can fill his Eye
And Heart: not like to God's, capacious, vast,
And comprehending all Hearts, or at least,
The godlike Part of all Hearts, in its own
Calm, sublime Pulse, the Life of all Things' Life!
Such Thoughts came o'er me as I gazed up to
The gathering Stars, that preach so eloquent
The Wisdom and the Goodness of the Lord,
And casting down mine Eyes I felt him there,
There also in the Dayseye at my Feet:
I saw no Littleness in it, for I
Felt Him alone, and most in mine own Heart,
Else could I not have seen him in that Flower:
And therefore I could see no Littleness
In it, for feeling Him, I was myself
No longer little: thus attuned, I passed
Into that Wood, as thro' a Temple vast,
Where the Highpriest himself officiates
In Person, and administers unto
The Faithful that sublimest Sacrament,
From Nature's own Communiontable, of
The Bread, the spiritual Bread of Love
And Life: and where can it so fitly be
Received as at that Altar, by the Hands
Of God himself administered to all!
Around the foremost Trees were Creepers twined,
And chrystalbunchëd Grapes, lowdrooping with
Their lipripe Nectarberries, in Festoons,
As by the Fingering of Fairyhands,
Closetwined, to form a rainproof Covering,
Where Thunderdrops for half a Summersday
Might patter, and not moisten on her Nest
The Wren's Breastfeathers: underneath no Light
Came from the peering Stars, save here and there
Some Straybeam, falling with a Perfumelight,
Thro' Honeyblooms and breezekissed Openings,
On the Dewgrass below: or that soft Ray
Of Spherelight, which the Firefly had stole,
Betraying his bright Theft: the Nightingale's
Soft Notes, like Dewdrops, fell on Blade and Leaf,
Making them tremble light: and as I crushed
The Perfumes in my Path, which made the Air
Wingheavy as he crept from Bough to Bough,
More sweetencumbered than a Noontidebee,
I could distinguish, more by Smell than Sight,
(Which left Imagination free to strew
The Path at her own Choice, and from the Womb
Of Darkness call dim Shapes of Loveliness)
The Flowers, which, with every passing Breath,
Breathed rich Intoxication: — then I caught
The Babble of a neighbouring Brook, and soon,
The Pathway opening up, I saw it gush,
In beadëd Bubbles and bright Waterbells,
From out a deepmouthed Cave, whose shaggy Brows
With the redberried Ash and Weepingbirch
Were thicko 'ergrown: and soon it shot along
Thro' chequered Shades, broadening into a Leap
For the hothunted Stag, when baying Hounds
Make Rock and Dingle echo in his Rear.
With this my joyous Guide, I wandered on,
As if eternal Nature, with her own
Still Hand, had led me, and regained at length
The open Ground, delighted and refreshed,
As ever, by this Commune with herself,
Whose Hand so oft had sprinkled on my Brow,
The fresh, clear Dew, in Token of sincere
Regeneration, as a Sign that I
Was baptized to her Service thus once more!
Her blessed Service, where the Fret of Heart
And Fever of vain Hopes is calmed away:
Her Ways of Innocence, in which we walk,
'Till of her mighty Heart the quiet Pulse
Attunes our own: to that communicates
Its own sublime Serenity, 'till naught,
Naught more can trouble us! 'till evil Tongues,
False Friends, Unthankfulness, and Hate, and Wrong,
Grow like to Words without a Meaning, yea!
Are such to us, for none can wrong us more,
None injure, none provoke us, for we feel
It not! esteeming it mere Folly to
Disturb, for Things so measurelessly less
Than it, the Soul! sublimely blind, we see
No Loss where all Men see it, and therefore
There is no Loss to us! God dwells in us,
And who can injure Him? who rob him? none!
And with Him what Loss can there ever be?