To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven,
On Earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou, Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou
fall'st.
Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies,
And
ye five other wand'ring Fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolor'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every plant in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls; ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
My Lord hath Need of these Flow'rets Gay.
THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he : "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again."
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves:
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.
"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
Man's breathing Miniature.
H! cease thy tears and sobs
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd knife: Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick laughter change this peevish cry! Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe, Tutor❜d by pain each source of pain to know! Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire Awake thy eager grasp and young desire; Alike the good, the ill, offend thy sight, And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright! Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms, Nestling thy little face in that fond breast Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest! Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak'st me
A Babe art thou-and such a thing am I!
To anger rapid, and as soon appeas'd,
For trifles mourning, and by trifles pleas'd,
Break friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar
glow!
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractis'd feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Men call it Death when Mortals Soar.
LOVE now is found; for from the lips of all
He murmurs forth in tones most wonderful; Is manifest alike in hues and sounds, And beautiful alike in every tongue. Within the verdant sanctuary of groves The zephyr steals along to kiss the earth, And by his kiss gives life to fragrant flowers: The children of Platonic love are they.
So, too, the trees with green and various tongues
In gentle whisperings own, at eventide,
Their mutual and mysterious love; as low
They downward bend their heads embracingly
In twilight, when no watchful eyes are on them.
The flowerets also love; and though no tongue
Have they, to tell their tenderness, they gaze
With streaming looks into each others' eyes,
And understand each other, although dumb:
Earth never hears a sweeter language spoken
Than that invented by these fond ones, who
With fervent glance fulfil the want of tongues.
The streamlet, too, clasping, with constant arms,
And folding to its breast the green Lemoniade,
Arrayed in living rubies and in gold,
Sighs forth its tender love in broken tones.
Nature! I know thy heart's deep meaning well,
Thy flowery writings and discourse of birds,
Whereof the fair interpreting by thee
Was written on my heart's pure page with fire.
A word it was of holy flame, long stifled,
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