The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the tuitle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.”—Jeremiah viii. 7.

Yet, Lord, what is it but Thy grace,
Enclosing us in its bright round,
Which tells us men that we have found
In thy regard a higher place

Than creatures of the air which wait,
In meek and simple quietness,
Upon Thy will, and ne'er transgress
The limits of their ancient state?

They never strain the genial band
Which round about them Thou hast cast,—
They keep an even course, and fast
Within their several orders stand.

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Sin has not stung them with despair,—
They breathe a free and painless breath;
Nor on their joy have fears of death
Shut down a rigid weight of care.

Fair Nature has no chilling glooms
For them,—the wards of Providence,
They wander on without offence,
And sing through all their Father's rooms.

The gentle guidance of Thy will,
Within their measure, is their choice;
And they are glad,—for they rejoice
Its light conditions to fulfil.

Wooed by the ruffling airs of spring,
The stork forsakes her Syrian clime,
And, true to her appointed time,
Cleaves the blue air with nimble wing,

To lands where Gothic minsters tear
With spears of stone the trailing cloud,
And marble statues o'er the crowd
Look steadfast in the sultry square.

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There, spring by spring, she harbour finds
In fretted niche, or moulding quaint;
Or, at the feet of sculptured saint,
Is shielded from the shifting winds.

Thus, ever in the season sweet
Of blowing flowers and budding leaves,
The swallow twitters from the eaves,
Or skims the sunny village street.

And troops of cranes in serried ranks
Move creaking on across the sky,
And long arrest the peasant's eye
Upon some river's viny banks.

All come and go at Thy command,
They find it joy enough to wait,
In their low station, at Thy gate,
For the dumb signals of Thy hand.

But we, who, placed beneath the sway
Of conscience, can discern both good
And evil,—in whose richer blood
Immortal spirit beats alway,—

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Whose being wears the golden crown
Of reason, and whose free-born mind
Was made its perfectness to find
In perfect concord with Thine own,—

Are in revolt against Thy law,
And overstep its sacred bar,
And from our Father's house afar
In wicked pride of heart withdraw.

We men, so far above them set,
Consume our years in fruitless toils,
And fret and struggle in the coils
Of vain desire as in a net.

And what but Love has watched our course,
And out of blessings forged a chain
To win us back to Thee again,
With tender and prevailing force?—

Which, with strong arms around us cast,
Would lead us higher than before,
That we may love Thee more and more,
And hold Thy good commandments fast;—

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Which gives us, in its heavenly might,
Strength to endeavour and endure,
After Thy pureness makes us pure,
Enlightens us with Thy great light,—

And in Thy freedom makes us free,—
That we may walk erect within
Thy conscious presence, and begin
To find our endless rest in Thee.