Then talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven. Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair, The dome is vast immensity— All nature worships there! DAVID VEDDER, 1790-1854. G อน TO THE CUCKOO HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood, To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! JOHN LOGAN, 1748–1788. THE THINGS OF HEAVEN ARE SURE. THE things of heaven are safe and sure; The things of heaven, of heavenly birth, The things of earth, though fair they be, The things we see above are bright, Unintellectual,—selfish,—dull. I know not what the senses see To wean us from eternity, The spirit has its natural seat In the celestial heights above; Earth is its prison,-its retreat, Where, lost in mists, 'tis wont to rove; Feeble, and dim, and tremblingly, Man wanders on, as vexed to be Midst things of earth that fade and flee. The things of earth are like a river,— A summer river,—swiftly dry; There streams of joy that ne'er shall be Exhausted, roll eternally, And thither let our spirits flee. SIR JOHN BOWRING, 1792— -Spanish of De Proaza. WORSHIP IN THE WOODLANDS. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the sweet music of the vernal grove. Or where the cloud-suspended rain Or when, reclining on the cliff's huge height, M Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! The primrose bank will there dispense Will speak the prayer of praise I feel. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the woodlands bend my way, And meet Religion there! She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray, Where storied windows dim the doubtful day : At liberty she loves to rove, Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the Night Pours in the North her silver streams of light, She woos reflection in the silent gloom, And ponders on the world to come. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843. |