 | [Poems by Hale in] The opal |  |
11
BOOKS.
A blessing on the Printer's art!Books are the Mentors of the heart.
The burning soul, the burdened mind,
In books alone companions find.
We never speak our deepest feelings,
Our holiest hopes have no revealings,
Save in the gleams that light the face,
Or fancies that the pen may trace.
And hence to books the heart must turn,
When with unspoken thoughts we yearn,
And gather from the silent page
The just reproof, the counsel sage,
The consolation kind and true,
That soothes and heals the wounded heart,
As on the broken plant the dew
Calls forth fresh leaves and buds to view,
More lovely as the old depart.
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The trembling-hearted fain would rest,
No opiate like a book that charms,
With its deep spell, the mind's alarm
Opening, as Genius has the key,
Some haunt of mirth or mystery,
Or trusting faith, or tender love,
As vista to the heaven above;
Where the lone wandering one may come,
Refreshed and glad as though at home;
And feel the soul has wells of joy,
Like springs that gush in cavern's gloom,
And hopes like gold without alloy,
Or diamonds buried in a tomb.
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FOREST WORSHIP.
What numbers, when the Sabbath comes,
Are trooping from their forest homes!
The maiden, pure as prairie rose,
Beside her bending grandsire goes;
The fawn-eyed children bound at large,
The mother brings her nursling charge,—
And, bearing some pale, sickly child,
Stalks the strong hunter of the wild.
Are trooping from their forest homes!
The maiden, pure as prairie rose,
Beside her bending grandsire goes;
The fawn-eyed children bound at large,
The mother brings her nursling charge,—
And, bearing some pale, sickly child,
Stalks the strong hunter of the wild.
And he may see, through copse-wood near,
The antlers of the browsing deer;
Or, as his path through prairie goes,
Hear the dull tramp of buffaloes;
Or savage foe, or beast of prey,
May haunt his steps, or bar his way,
And so, like knight he goes prepared
His foes to meet, his friends to guard:
The rifle in his ready hand
Proclaims the forester's command,—
And as his glance is onward cast,
Or wild-wood sounds go rustling past,
His flashing eye and flushing cheek
Betray the wish he may not speak;—
But soon these fancies fade away,
Checked by the thought—'tis Sabbath Day!
And when he gains the House of Prayer,
Heart, soul and mind are centered there.
The antlers of the browsing deer;
Or, as his path through prairie goes,
Hear the dull tramp of buffaloes;
Or savage foe, or beast of prey,
May haunt his steps, or bar his way,
And so, like knight he goes prepared
His foes to meet, his friends to guard:
The rifle in his ready hand
Proclaims the forester's command,—
And as his glance is onward cast,
Or wild-wood sounds go rustling past,
His flashing eye and flushing cheek
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But soon these fancies fade away,
Checked by the thought—'tis Sabbath Day!
And when he gains the House of Prayer,
Heart, soul and mind are centered there.
That House of Prayer—how mean beside
The grand Cathedral's sculptured pride!
Yet He who in a manger slept,
And in the wilds his vigils kept,
Will breathe a holy charm around,
Where his true followers are found.
Oh! never dream it low and rude,
Though fashioned by the settler's axe,
The sap still weeping from the wood,
As loath to leave its brother trees,
That wave above it in the breeze,
No pomp it needs, no glory lacks;—
The holy angels are its guard,
And pious feet its planks have trod;
'Tis consecrated to the Lord,
The Temple of the living God!
The grand Cathedral's sculptured pride!
Yet He who in a manger slept,
And in the wilds his vigils kept,
Will breathe a holy charm around,
Where his true followers are found.
Oh! never dream it low and rude,
Though fashioned by the settler's axe,
The sap still weeping from the wood,
As loath to leave its brother trees,
That wave above it in the breeze,
No pomp it needs, no glory lacks;—
The holy angels are its guard,
And pious feet its planks have trod;
'Tis consecrated to the Lord,
The Temple of the living God!
But when the Sabbath gatherings press,
Like armies, from the wilderness,
'Tis then the dim, old woods afford
The Sanctuary of the Lord!
The Holy Spirit breathes around—
That forest glade is sacred ground,
Nor temple built with hands could vie
In glory with its majesty.
Like armies, from the wilderness,
'Tis then the dim, old woods afford
The Sanctuary of the Lord!
The Holy Spirit breathes around—
That forest glade is sacred ground,
Nor temple built with hands could vie
In glory with its majesty.
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THE GATHERED LILY-BUD.
BY THE EDITOR
A cloud has darkened o'er a home
Where happiness like sunshine lay,—
The angel of the Lord has come
And taken their lily-bud away!
Where happiness like sunshine lay,—
The angel of the Lord has come
And taken their lily-bud away!
As falls the blight of early frost
And seals the world for winter's doom,
One gone—the household band has lost
The charm that gives to life its bloom.
And seals the world for winter's doom,
One gone—the household band has lost
The charm that gives to life its bloom.
One gone—whose sweet caressing kiss
Could cheer the father's heaviest care,
And fill the mother's heart with bliss
A seraph might have wished to share!
Could cheer the father's heaviest care,
And fill the mother's heart with bliss
A seraph might have wished to share!
And yet to heaven the more we give,
The richer in its hopes we grow;—
It is not all of life to live,—
It is not here God's lilies blow.
The richer in its hopes we grow;—
It is not all of life to live,—
It is not here God's lilies blow.
The buds withdrawn from human care
Are set where crystal waters move,
And there they open—O! how fair—
Watched by the Saviour's tender love.
Are set where crystal waters move,
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Watched by the Saviour's tender love.
Then, sorrowing parents, look above,
And there behold your Lily-bud,
And while earth's emptiness ye prove,
Rejoice your treasures are with God.
And there behold your Lily-bud,
And while earth's emptiness ye prove,
Rejoice your treasures are with God.
| [Poems by Hale in] The opal | |