PRAISE.
Put forth your leafy lutes,—ye wind-swept trees,
For well the sighing summer gales do love
To play upon them. Often have I heard,
When in sweet freshness came the gentle shower,
That pensive music at the fall of eve,
And blest it in my loneliness of soul.
Call forth, thou peopled grass, those weak-voiced tribes
That nest beneath thy waving canopy,
To wake their chirping chorus,—while thy sigh
In whispered symphony the cadence fills.
Utter your oral melody, ye streams,
As swift of foot, your mazy course you run,
To the cool pillow of some mightier tide.
And thou, old Ocean!—robed in solemn state,
Yield thy deep organ to the tempest's will,
And with the surges and the sweeping blasts
Pour such bold voluntary, that the stars
Stooping to listen to thy thunder-hymn
Shall tremble in their spheres.
Heart!—strike thy harp!
Join the full anthem of Creation's praise,
Ere thou shalt pour thy life-breath on the winds,
And sleep the sleep of silence and the grave.