"There is no God!" All nature sighed with terror, When first these words fell on her startled ear; The dark green forests heard the willful error, And whispered to each other words of fear! The skies were clear, there spoke no voice of thunder, Yet the sun blushed, indignant at the wrong; The wild-rose hid her head her green leaves under, And thought of Him who nourished her so long.
"There is no God!" Go ye who heard the story— Repeat it not, but cast an upward glance Unto the stars arrayed in all their glory; Then ask yourselves, Could they be made by chance? The thousand, thousand gems that nightly cluster Upon the brow of night, children of love, Upon us look, with stronger, brighter luster, And answer "No!" from their high homes above.
Go ye, who heard it, to the dark blue ocean; Watch the strong waves that move for good or ill; Then think, if thou canst do it, without emotion, Of Him who said unto them. "Peace, be still!" Mark the wild billows, dashing madly onward, Whelming- thy fellow-men beneath their waves; Then ask if these shall sleep, when sunken downward, Forever, in the sea-god's hidden caves!
Go to yon widow: she is worn and weary, Neglected, ignorant, and very old; The world to her had been a desert dreary, Had she not treasures richer far than gold. Her friends are dead, her children gone before her; Whence comes her consolation, whence her strength? See! she looks meekly to the azure o'er her,— There she will meet them all, in bliss, at length.
Go, lastly, to thy gifted fellow-being; Ask him who breathed through darkened clay a light; Bid him remember that the eye All-Seeing Is fixed upon him, that he answer right. Bid him remember that the Book of heaven Records each word as soon as it is thought; Then ask him if by chance the soul was given, And surely he will answer, "It is not."
No, it is not! the boundless aspirations, The splendid ideas that the soul drinks in, The thirst for knowledge, and the free oblations That Truth demands, forbid the love of sin. These, these alone, should teach us the foundation Our faith is built on, for a glorious crown: Shame on the man that, with the brute creation, Would level mind, and drag the spirit down!
