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208
THE WOODLAND-TEMPLE.
Eliza.We have stray'd,
Unconsciously, into my favourite grove.
'Tis one of Nature's temples, built of elms.
This little path amid the grass, that leads
Nowhere, but still returns upon itself,
These feet have worn, for none comes here but me.—
Would'st know the service of my leafy church?
Jane.
Ay. Be it e'er so simple, e'er so rude,
I doubt not even Heaven will lend an ear.
Eliza.
Three times a-day, at morn, and noon, and even,
Do sweet religious bells call me to prayer.
First, at the gray and earliest wink of dawn,
The mellow-throated blackbirds of this brake,
Send soft devotional peals along my sleep;
And when I waken into real thought,
'Tis not like tearing from a blessed dream,
But a continuation of the dream,—
For still the soft peals come. Then I arise,
And, stepping forth into the morn, behold
The sun at orisons upon a bank,
Far in the east, and with his lowly beams
Clasping the whole earth to his loving breast.
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So dazzle with the sapphire dew, that earth
Seems all a paradise, whose very dust
Is pearls and precious stones.—The dimpling well,
That laves the entrance to this hallowed grove,
Receives my first obeisance. There I drink.
Pure water is the symbol of pure life:
The morning draught should be a daily pledge;
And, inasmuch as 'tis the God-given wine,
That comes direct from Nature, so we reach
The immediate Presence, even by that thought.—
It is the ruling feature of all things,
And that which makes each kin to all, that we,
By passing into them, still come to God.
What can we more beyond the Eternal Thought,
Which in itself is sermon, hymn, and prayer—
The sole heart of my service? So, I pace
This quiet sward to find it; and, when found,
It is the inauguration of a day
On which all things go heavenward: the birds
Sing hymns, the flowers in sweet odours pray;
The herd-boy's whistle, and the mower's song,
With sound of sharpening scythes, seem all to ring
Of innocence and Eden.—I return
To household duties, to a simple meal,
And find the consecration on them all.
Jane.
And this your matin-service! But I see
It's all thought service. You should give, I think,
At least one voiced hymn to the morning; thus:—
It's all thought service. You should give, I think,
At least one voiced hymn to the morning; thus:—
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O Morning, with thy star divinely fair—
Thy hope before thee in the east ascending,
Come to our cushion'd earth, God's footstool, where
Immortal hearts are bending.
Thy hope before thee in the east ascending,
Come to our cushion'd earth, God's footstool, where
Immortal hearts are bending.
We have high hope as thou for brighter day—
The hope in heaven, the action still aspiring:
We are, like thee, beclouded on our way;
But not, like thee, untiring.
The hope in heaven, the action still aspiring:
We are, like thee, beclouded on our way;
But not, like thee, untiring.
Teach us thy steady and unwearied way
To higher excellence; thy regularity;
Thy patient strength throughout the adverse day;
Thy universal charity.
To higher excellence; thy regularity;
Thy patient strength throughout the adverse day;
Thy universal charity.
Give us thy young heart, never to feel old,
Though years pass from us and have no returning;
Since out of death, our night, we shall unfold,
And rise like thee, bright Morning!
Though years pass from us and have no returning;
Since out of death, our night, we shall unfold,
And rise like thee, bright Morning!
Eliza.
The thoughts are good, and wonderfully sung,
Considering how untunable the measure.—
I would augment my service with a hymn,
And have a heart for music; but my ear
Is spoil'd, I think, with living near a wood.
Therefore I'll leave that part to you.
Jane.
Describe
Your noontide service, then; and if a hymn
Arise by nature from it, I shall sing.
All song should seem spontaneous, if 'tis not.
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At noon there is a brief bar of the day,
In which all Nature, even Time, doth rest.
Few know of that, for in this rushing world,
Many divinities of daily presence
Are pass'd unseen. It is the merest span—
Yea, to the onward harmony of time,
'Tis as the rest in music. Yet, thus brief,
It is, of all the day, the very break
For Heavenly thought and prayer.
In which all Nature, even Time, doth rest.
Few know of that, for in this rushing world,
Many divinities of daily presence
Are pass'd unseen. It is the merest span—
Yea, to the onward harmony of time,
'Tis as the rest in music. Yet, thus brief,
It is, of all the day, the very break
For Heavenly thought and prayer.
A little while
Before the dial points to noon, I seek
The bank beneath yon leaf-beclouded elm,
Amid whose branches is a little world
Of green and gold and flickering beams, and bees
Whose tiny pipes keep up a honey'd drone,
Awaking thoughts of fairy-land. And there,
On that imaginative bank, I watch
The climbing day, the pant of Nature. Soon,
The larks drop singing from the clouds, and quench
Midway their song, as falling stars their light;
The little drones up in the slumbrous tree,
Sing smotheringly and cease; the lisping brooks
Grow deeper throated, hum a quiet bass;
The sunny winds lie down outside the woods.
Anon, the Day takes his last upward step,
And, on the golden pinnacle of noon,
Stands still to breathe, one breath, before he turns
With meek brow down upon the western vale.
That breathing was the time—a pause too brief
For anything but thought, for thought enough
To reach the inner sanctities of Heaven,—
To reach them and return on wings of prayer.
Before the dial points to noon, I seek
The bank beneath yon leaf-beclouded elm,
Amid whose branches is a little world
Of green and gold and flickering beams, and bees
Whose tiny pipes keep up a honey'd drone,
Awaking thoughts of fairy-land. And there,
On that imaginative bank, I watch
The climbing day, the pant of Nature. Soon,
The larks drop singing from the clouds, and quench
Midway their song, as falling stars their light;
The little drones up in the slumbrous tree,
Sing smotheringly and cease; the lisping brooks
Grow deeper throated, hum a quiet bass;
The sunny winds lie down outside the woods.
Anon, the Day takes his last upward step,
And, on the golden pinnacle of noon,
Stands still to breathe, one breath, before he turns
With meek brow down upon the western vale.
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For anything but thought, for thought enough
To reach the inner sanctities of Heaven,—
To reach them and return on wings of prayer.
The day moves on again. Ere you can note
The start, each little cloud has broken out
In lark notes, and rains music. In the woods
The winds have entered on their gleaming wings,
And leaves are in a flutter of delight;
My canopy, the tree, is in full blast,
Its hives of bees have tuned their honey'd pipes.
So Nature's organ, with its myriad stops,
Plays me from church, dower'd with a glimpse of Heaven.
The start, each little cloud has broken out
In lark notes, and rains music. In the woods
The winds have entered on their gleaming wings,
And leaves are in a flutter of delight;
My canopy, the tree, is in full blast,
Its hives of bees have tuned their honey'd pipes.
So Nature's organ, with its myriad stops,
Plays me from church, dower'd with a glimpse of Heaven.
Jane.
Somewhat indefinite service, is it not?
Eliza.
I do not know; but if it be, 'tis well—
You have the greater license for the hymn.
Jane.
When Nature rests at noon, and seems
To tarry on the endless path,
'Tis not the faintness of her beams,
The love of ease, the rest of sloth.
To tarry on the endless path,
'Tis not the faintness of her beams,
The love of ease, the rest of sloth.
For oft it takes no stronger will,
No deeper life to do than be;
So is that quiet Nature still
The all of good and fair we see.
No deeper life to do than be;
So is that quiet Nature still
The all of good and fair we see.
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The ocean-deeps drink in more heaven,
At peace within their molten calm,
Than when on high and tempest-riven,
They shout their grand impassion'd psalm.
At peace within their molten calm,
Than when on high and tempest-riven,
They shout their grand impassion'd psalm.
Nor is that calm a stagnant ease;
The tides hold on to ebb and flow,
And thoughts are passing in the seas,
Which only God may truly know.
The tides hold on to ebb and flow,
And thoughts are passing in the seas,
Which only God may truly know.
When hearts have cast up sin by sin,
And know the tranquil joy of rest,
There will be peace as deep within
The fathoms of the human breast.
And know the tranquil joy of rest,
There will be peace as deep within
The fathoms of the human breast.
Eliza.
When day is burning out, there, in the west,
And leaving but its embers, red and black;
When gloaming loans ring with the throstle's pipe,
And sing the day's good-evening to the night;
When daisies sleep and blue-bells do not ring,
Labour at rest and lovers whispering,
I to my bosky temple come again.
And leaving but its embers, red and black;
When gloaming loans ring with the throstle's pipe,
And sing the day's good-evening to the night;
When daisies sleep and blue-bells do not ring,
Labour at rest and lovers whispering,
I to my bosky temple come again.
It is the hour of falling dews; the soul
Has its own dew of thought, and then it comes
Divinely from the stars: that bright lone one,
Venus, amid whose beams Love loves to stray,
On whose excess of beauty poets thrive;
And all the unnumber'd lesser beads of light
That break out on Night's Ethiop brow like sweat,
Has its own dew of thought, and then it comes
Divinely from the stars: that bright lone one,
Venus, amid whose beams Love loves to stray,
On whose excess of beauty poets thrive;
And all the unnumber'd lesser beads of light
That break out on Night's Ethiop brow like sweat,
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As up the dark he labours; and the moon,
That beauteous lunatic who dotes on Night,
Hangs on his skirt, lies in his breast, falls out,
Then turns her back and leaves him, till some days
Of cloud and weeping bring her back again:
Yea, all that walk the eternal rounds of space,
On what God's-errand we shall never know:
Yet while their unknown message speeds; or hearts
Live on their waste, the dewy light they spill!
That beauteous lunatic who dotes on Night,
Hangs on his skirt, lies in his breast, falls out,
Then turns her back and leaves him, till some days
Of cloud and weeping bring her back again:
Yea, all that walk the eternal rounds of space,
On what God's-errand we shall never know:
Yet while their unknown message speeds; or hearts
Live on their waste, the dewy light they spill!
My evening service has a starry cast—
A glare of moonshine in it, you will say,
And vacancy of space: but, save that star,
The Conscience, whose fine light the fumes of hell
May dim but not put out, which pure hearts know
To be the very life of God in us,
I know of nought that leads so straight to God
As those fine wonders which the skies beget.—
To think of space, to know it has no bound,
Nor could have, needs a mind like space itself,
Eterne, with but illusionary bounds.
The mind, once born to illimitable thoughts,
Must live them through illimitable time.
They could not enter in a mind that ends.
A glare of moonshine in it, you will say,
And vacancy of space: but, save that star,
The Conscience, whose fine light the fumes of hell
May dim but not put out, which pure hearts know
To be the very life of God in us,
I know of nought that leads so straight to God
As those fine wonders which the skies beget.—
To think of space, to know it has no bound,
Nor could have, needs a mind like space itself,
Eterne, with but illusionary bounds.
The mind, once born to illimitable thoughts,
Must live them through illimitable time.
They could not enter in a mind that ends.
O wilderness of silence that lies out
Beyond the glimmer of the farthest star,
Or in whose unimaginable deeps
There is no end of stars! our wings of thought
Not long sustain their flight through thee, but flag
As thy horizon ever more recedes;
They fail, and we, the living souls of thought,
Should fall like plummets from the spheres of flight;
But the divine necessity of God
Is round us, and receives us, and we find
Answer and rest more blessed than we sought.
Beyond the glimmer of the farthest star,
Or in whose unimaginable deeps
There is no end of stars! our wings of thought
Not long sustain their flight through thee, but flag
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They fail, and we, the living souls of thought,
Should fall like plummets from the spheres of flight;
But the divine necessity of God
Is round us, and receives us, and we find
Answer and rest more blessed than we sought.
In all my services, a thought of God
Is still my full amen: I can no more.
In very truth, we need no more; for that,
Breathing the soul of everything, supplies
The very soul of all our life's deep wants.
Is still my full amen: I can no more.
In very truth, we need no more; for that,
Breathing the soul of everything, supplies
The very soul of all our life's deep wants.
Parent of Heaven and earth and moving things!
By whatsoever name with us, or none;
However dimly reach'd, whom yet we know
To be the soul of life, the heart of love,
The essence of all beauty, and the power
Whereby the planets roll and dewdrops fall,—
O grant that we may know Thee more and more,
Not as the past and future God, but now
And here, on plain unconsecrated ground!
We grandly see Thee in the unfrequent storm
That rends the woods and cracks the quarried rocks!
O may we know Thee in the simplest air
That gathers odours on the thymy banks,
And cheaply brings them any summer day!
We meekly say the thunder is Thy voice;
And e'en philosophy, 'mid causes lost,
At last takes up the thought. So may we know
That voice as Thine, which in our wilful hearts
Whispers the simple truth, the honest right.
Then, knowing it is Thine, may it command
Our ready act, however dim the end!
By whatsoever name with us, or none;
However dimly reach'd, whom yet we know
To be the soul of life, the heart of love,
The essence of all beauty, and the power
Whereby the planets roll and dewdrops fall,—
O grant that we may know Thee more and more,
Not as the past and future God, but now
And here, on plain unconsecrated ground!
We grandly see Thee in the unfrequent storm
That rends the woods and cracks the quarried rocks!
O may we know Thee in the simplest air
That gathers odours on the thymy banks,
And cheaply brings them any summer day!
We meekly say the thunder is Thy voice;
And e'en philosophy, 'mid causes lost,
At last takes up the thought. So may we know
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Whispers the simple truth, the honest right.
Then, knowing it is Thine, may it command
Our ready act, however dim the end!
Jane.
Amen. The Conscience is indeed God's voice;
It cannot be out-reason'd; therefore 'tis
The reflex of a higher mind than ours.
As well earth burn the sun out with her fires,
As we by argument put out this light.
Eliza.
See! Evening, with the eyelids almost closed,
Looks through their long dusk lashes, half in dream,
And passes softly into deeper sleep.
Sing us a hymn, and then we'll go along.
Jane.
Day pass'd from earth, and sky and cloud
Laid him in a golden shroud:
Tears, sad but beautiful, were lying
On the earth when Day was dying.
Laid him in a golden shroud:
Tears, sad but beautiful, were lying
On the earth when Day was dying.
When our course is run, O may
You and I be like the Day—
Not die but with accomplish'd duty,
And pass amid increase of beauty.
You and I be like the Day—
Not die but with accomplish'd duty,
And pass amid increase of beauty.
Then, when lost to mortal sight—
Lost in blank imagined night,
Our places vacant, friends repining,
We, like Day, elsewhere be shining.
Lost in blank imagined night,
Our places vacant, friends repining,
We, like Day, elsewhere be shining.
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