Thy path is high in heaven; we cannot gaze On the intense of light that girds thy car; There is a crown of glory in thy rays,

Which bears thy pure divinity afar,

To mingle with the equal light of star,— For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole One of the sparks of night that fire the air, And, as around thy centre planets roll,

So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

I am no fond idolater to thee,

One of the countless multitude, who burn, As lamps, around the one Eternity,

In whose contending forces systems turn Their circles round that seat of life, the urn Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies :

Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes, Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies.

And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee
We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone,
And movest through the wide, aerial sea,

Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne From a new victory, where he late had shown Wider his power to nations; so thy light

Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had grown

With each revolving day, or thou, at night, Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might.

Age o'er thee has no power: thou bring'st the

same

Light to renew the morning, as when first, If not eternal, thou, with front of flame,

On the dark face of earth in glory burst,

And warm'd the seas, and in their bosom nursed The earliest things of life, the worm and shell; Till, through the sinking ocean, mountains pierced,

And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, Rear'd, like a magic fane, above the watery swell.

And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds

Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends An energy to nature; all that feeds

On the rich mould, and then, in bearing, bends Its fruits again to earth, wherein it blends The last and first of life; of all who bear

Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends, Instinctive in their common good to share, Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living there.

They live in thee: without thee, all were dead
And dark; no beam had lighted on the waste,
But one eternal night around had spread
Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced
This Eden, which thy fairy hand hath graced
With such uncounted beauty; all that blows

In the fresh air of spring, and, growing, braced Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows In the full-temper'd beam, that gladdens as it goes.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and

mourn;

Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ;

Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn

Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;
All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers, and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow
Of all the power that brooded in the urn
Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly
spurn

All bands that would confine, and give to air
Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn,
When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there
Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light
the fair.

The vales are thine: and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light

They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright,

And widens outward to the pebbled shore,— The vales are thine; and when they wake from night,

The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oosy beds, look upward, and adore.

The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam, And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream,

That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food

Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.

Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift Snows that have never wasted, in a sky Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by; Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,

Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;

And when below thy hues of beauty die, Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear, Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues Are pencill'd by thee; when thou bendest low, Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues Their waving fold with such a perfect glow

Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw Shame on the proudest art; the tender stain

Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain All tints to the deep gold that flashes in thy train: These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, The sign of triumph, in a sevenfold twine, Where the spent storm is hasting on its march, And there the glories of thy light combine, And form with perfect curve a lifted line, Striding the earth and air: man looks, and tells How peace and mercy in its beauty shine, And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells.

The ocean is thy vassal; thou dost sway

His waves to thy dominion, and they go Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way,

Rising and falling in eternal flow;

Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow; They take them wings and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw

Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast,

Widest of waters; I have seen thee lie Calm, as an infant pillow'd in its rest

On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky,