NATURE'S BEAUTY.
I looked on Nature's beauty, and it came
Like a blest spirit to my inmost heart,
And darkness fled away. The fragrant breeze
Swept o'er me, as a tale of other times,
Lifting the curtain from the ancient cells
Of early memory. The young vine put forth
Her quivering tendrils, while the patron bough
Lured their light clasping with that lore which leaves
Do whisper to each other, when they lean
To drink the music of the summer-shower.
There was a sound of wings, and through the mesh
Of her green-latticed chamber, stole the bird
To cheer her callow young. The stream flowed on,
And on its lake-like breast, the bending trees
Did glass themselves with such serene repose,
That their still haunt seemed holy. The spent sun
Turned to his rest, and full his parting ray
To mountain-top, and spire, and verdant grove,
And burnished casement, and reposing nest,
Spake benediction. And the vesper-strain
Went breathing up from every plant and flower.
The rose did fold itself, as at the cry
From the high minaret, "to prayer! to prayer!"
The Moslem kneels; and the half-sleeping eye
Of the young violet, looked devoutly forth,
Like the meek shepherd from his cottage door,
When the clear horn doth warn the Alpine cliffs,
To praise the Lord. And then the queenly Moon
Came through Heaven's portal. High her vestal train
Did bear their brilliant cressets in their hands,
Trembling with pride and pleasure. Beauty lay,
Like a broad mantle, on each slumbering dell,
And to the domes that peered through woven shades,
Gave attic grace. But on one roof, the eye
Did gaze instinctively, singling it out
From all this flood of loveliness, as turns
The mariner to some fair isle of rest,
Calling it home. I love to see thee raise
Thy stainless forehead through the sheltering elm,
Sequestered mansion. Other forms than those
That I have reared, may in thy nursery play,
Yet ne'er will I forget thee. Stranger-tones
May wake the echoes of thine airy halls,
And other names than his, whose classic taste
Reared thy pure columns, and thy haunts adorned,
May claim thy mastership: for change doth write
With Protean pencil, on all things that man
Would call his own.
It is not meet that earth
Or aught of earthly heritage, assume
Heaven's feature of duration. Yet 'tis sweet,
On Nature's beauteous page, to read of God,
And I would bear the picture in my heart
Of these sweet woods and waters, summer-drest
And angel-voiced, until I lay me down
On the low pillow of my last repose.