 | [Reflection, in] The Christian keepsake and missionary annual |  |
145
REFLECTION.
Well, the bright hours have come and gone,
Which hope in gorgeous hues array'd;
I hear no more the viol's tone,—
But from the moonlit forest's shade,
“Floateth the night-bird's serenade!”
Sweet warbler o'er thy folded wing!
Thy soothing melodies I hear,
Like the first anthems born of spring,
Or voices from a happier sphere.
Which hope in gorgeous hues array'd;
I hear no more the viol's tone,—
But from the moonlit forest's shade,
“Floateth the night-bird's serenade!”
Sweet warbler o'er thy folded wing!
Thy soothing melodies I hear,
Like the first anthems born of spring,
Or voices from a happier sphere.
The calmness of this gentle scene
Is holy—passionless—divine;
And gazing on the waving green
Of glimmering spray or distant pine,
Where massy wreaths of ivy twine—
Gazing on these I melt, I burn:
New strength my drooping spirits feel;
As to yon glorious vault I turn,
Where worlds in dazzling orbits wheel.
Is holy—passionless—divine;
And gazing on the waving green
Of glimmering spray or distant pine,
Where massy wreaths of ivy twine—
Gazing on these I melt, I burn:
New strength my drooping spirits feel;
As to yon glorious vault I turn,
Where worlds in dazzling orbits wheel.
Spirit of Night! thy power profound,
I feel too deeply and too well;
O'er the hush'd vastness spread around,
Thy brooding wings in silence dwell:
Thy dismal secrets who can tell?
Perchance the pinions of the Dead
Now fan me with their plumage pale,
As if some angel's robe were spread
In airy dalliance with the gale.
I feel too deeply and too well;
O'er the hush'd vastness spread around,
Thy brooding wings in silence dwell:
Thy dismal secrets who can tell?
Perchance the pinions of the Dead
Now fan me with their plumage pale,
146
In airy dalliance with the gale.
Yet while my fancy wakes, and springs
Up from the stream, the tree, the clod,
Some voice divine, inspiring, sings
The grandeur and the power of God.
Lo! at his voice the forests nod!
The whirlwind rusheth from his lair—
The burdened clouds in darkness ride;
And the bright rainbow, high and fair,
Bends smiling o'er the torrent's side!
Up from the stream, the tree, the clod,
Some voice divine, inspiring, sings
The grandeur and the power of God.
Lo! at his voice the forests nod!
The whirlwind rusheth from his lair—
The burdened clouds in darkness ride;
And the bright rainbow, high and fair,
Bends smiling o'er the torrent's side!
Yes! in His breath, the summer clouds
Their rich and damask wings expand,
And round the sunset float in crowds,
Like banners of the spirit-land
Borne o'er some high celestial band:
And when I read the written sky
Fretted with gems of golden fire,
To God my spirit makes reply,
And kindling thoughts aloft aspire.
Their rich and damask wings expand,
And round the sunset float in crowds,
Like banners of the spirit-land
Borne o'er some high celestial band:
And when I read the written sky
Fretted with gems of golden fire,
To God my spirit makes reply,
And kindling thoughts aloft aspire.
And shall my heart refuse to join
The stars, the skies, his name to praise?
Shall those far-sparkling orbs divine
Pour down their multitude of rays,
While my dull voice no hymn can raise
To the great Source of love and grace?
Arouse, my soul! and let thy wings
Devotion's heavenward strength put on:
So shall I reach those crystal springs,
Which flow beneath th' Eternal's throne!
The stars, the skies, his name to praise?
Shall those far-sparkling orbs divine
Pour down their multitude of rays,
While my dull voice no hymn can raise
To the great Source of love and grace?
Arouse, my soul! and let thy wings
Devotion's heavenward strength put on:
So shall I reach those crystal springs,
Which flow beneath th' Eternal's throne!
Philadelphia, May, 1837.
| [Reflection, in] The Christian keepsake and missionary annual | |