 | Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems |  |
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HYMN OF THE WESTERN HUNTER.
Father and God! at twilight hour,
When soft the dews of evening fall,
When gently closes every flower
And fades the glow in sunset's hall—
We offer up our grateful lay,
Though harsh and rude the humble strain;
For, guided safely through the day,
We bend before thy throne again.
When soft the dews of evening fall,
When gently closes every flower
And fades the glow in sunset's hall—
We offer up our grateful lay,
Though harsh and rude the humble strain;
For, guided safely through the day,
We bend before thy throne again.
No longer falls the woodman's stroke
Deep in the ancient forest's heart,
There, from his lair by mossy oak,
The covert fawn would wildly start;
No longer, at our rifle's sound,
The wild swan leaves the lonely shore;
Day's toil is past, and kneeling round,
We hymn our praise for perils o'er.
Deep in the ancient forest's heart,
There, from his lair by mossy oak,
The covert fawn would wildly start;
No longer, at our rifle's sound,
The wild swan leaves the lonely shore;
Day's toil is past, and kneeling round,
We hymn our praise for perils o'er.
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And led by Thee, we boldly dare
The dangers of the trackless wild;
Thou speakest in the mountain air,
Thy hand on high the rude crag piled;
We kneel where man ne'er knelt before
And meekly at thine altar bow,
Still hear thy voice, as heard of yore
The seer, on Sinai's hoary brow.
The dangers of the trackless wild;
Thou speakest in the mountain air,
Thy hand on high the rude crag piled;
We kneel where man ne'er knelt before
And meekly at thine altar bow,
Still hear thy voice, as heard of yore
The seer, on Sinai's hoary brow.
Thy chosen ones, by Galilee,
Beheld thee calm the stormy wave;
Our trust, as theirs, is placed on thee,
When o'er the plain the tempests rave,
And when, on hill and prairie far,
The deep snow hides the hunter's track
And storm-clouds veil the polar star,
Thou Father, guid'st us safely, back.
Beheld thee calm the stormy wave;
Our trust, as theirs, is placed on thee,
When o'er the plain the tempests rave,
And when, on hill and prairie far,
The deep snow hides the hunter's track
And storm-clouds veil the polar star,
Thou Father, guid'st us safely, back.
In the thronged city's busy mart
Man ever kneels at Mammon's shrine,
But here, within the wildwood's heart,
We feel our souls are wholly thine.
Care cannot shade our spirit's light,
Though rude and wild our path may be;
At eventide, in morning's light,
Our ceaseless praise we pour to thee.
Man ever kneels at Mammon's shrine,
But here, within the wildwood's heart,
We feel our souls are wholly thine.
Care cannot shade our spirit's light,
Though rude and wild our path may be;
At eventide, in morning's light,
Our ceaseless praise we pour to thee.
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Through pillared aisle, through echoing hall,
The organ's thunder-voice may peal,
And thrilling anthems rise and fall,
The raptured soul from Earth to steal—
Yet nobler fanes, built by Thy hand,
In lofty pride, are rear'd around;
Through whose long aisles and arches grand,
Like organ-peals our hymns resound.
The organ's thunder-voice may peal,
And thrilling anthems rise and fall,
The raptured soul from Earth to steal—
Yet nobler fanes, built by Thy hand,
In lofty pride, are rear'd around;
Through whose long aisles and arches grand,
Like organ-peals our hymns resound.
The hoarse notes of the stormy skies,
The brooklet's chime, the wave's sad moan,
Together with our prayers arise
Like incense sweet, before Thy throne;
Afar, upon the calm lake's tide,
In wilds before by man untrod,
On prairie lone and mountain side
Our souls commune with thee, our God.
The brooklet's chime, the wave's sad moan,
Together with our prayers arise
Like incense sweet, before Thy throne;
Afar, upon the calm lake's tide,
In wilds before by man untrod,
On prairie lone and mountain side
Our souls commune with thee, our God.
And Thou, whose mercy all things share,
Amid these awful solitudes,
Teach us to see thee everywhere,
To feel thy spirit o'er us broods;
And though from man's thronged haunts afar,
Though from the world's vain pleasures gone,
The groves and plains our temples are
And Thine the hand that guides us on!
Amid these awful solitudes,
Teach us to see thee everywhere,
To feel thy spirit o'er us broods;
And though from man's thronged haunts afar,
Though from the world's vain pleasures gone,
The groves and plains our temples are
And Thine the hand that guides us on!
| Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems | |