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The very light, that streams

Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes, tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground:
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.

Wakes there some spirit here?

A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices-each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!

Yes, lightly, softly move!

There is a Power, a Presence in the woods;
A viewless Being, that with life and love
Informs the reverential solitudes :

The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-
Thou, Thou art here, my God!

And if with awe we tread

The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead;
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less Thy fane,
Where Thou alone hast built-where arch and roof
Are of Thy living woof?

The silence and the sound

In the lone places breathe alike of Thee;
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound,

The dew-cup of the frail anemone,

The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd-
All, all with Thee are fill'd!

Oh, purify mine eyes,

More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, Holiest One! to recognise

In these majestic aisles which Thou hast wrought!
And, 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever Thy voice to hear!

And sanctify my heart

To meet the awful sweetness of that tone,
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly Guest to own!
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.

Let me not know the change

O'er nature thrown by Guilt!—the boding sky, The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie! Father! oh keep my footsteps pure and free,

To walk the woods with Thee!

ANONYMOUS.

GOD THE COMFORTER.

OH, Thou! who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!

The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not Thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shews us worlds of light

We never saw by day!

THOMAS MOORE, 1779-1852.

FOREST MUSINGS.

THE green leaves waving in the morning gale— The little birds that 'mid their freshness singThe wild-wood flowers so tender-eyed and pale— The wood-mouse sitting by the forest springThe morning dew-the wild bees' woodland hum, All woo my feet to Nature's forest home.

'Tis beautiful, from some tall craggy peak To watch the setting of the blessed sunTo mark his light grow weaker, and more weak, Till earth and sky be hid in twilight dun ; 'Tis beautiful to watch the earliest ray, That sparkling comes across the ocean gray.

But, oh! more beautiful—more passing sweet
It is, to wander in an hour like this—
Where twisted branches overhead do meet,

And gentle airs the bursting buds do kiss— Where forest paths, and glades, and thickets green, Make up, of flowers and leaves, a world serene.

To the pure heart, 'tis happiness to mark

The tree-tops waving in the warm sunshine,
To hear thy song, thou cloud-embosom'd lark!
Like that of some fair spirit all divine—
To lie upon the forest's velvet grass,
And watch the timid deer in distance pass.

Oh! gloriously beautiful is earth!

The desert wild, the mountain old and hoar,
The craggy steep, upthrown at Nature's birth,

The sweeping ocean-wave, the pebbled shore,
Have much of beauty all; but none to me
Is like the spot where stands the forest-tree.

There I can muse, away from living men,

Reclining peacefully on Nature's breast,
The woodbird sending up its God-ward strain,
Nursing the spirit into holy rest!

Alone with God, within His forest fane,
The soul can feel, that all save Him is vain.

Here it can learn-will learn to love all things
That He hath made-to pity and forgive

All faults, all failings: here the heart's deep springs
Are open'd up, and all on earth who live
To me grow nearer, dearer than before—
My brother loving, I my God adore.

A deep mysterious sympathy doth bind

The human heart to nature's beauties all; We know not, guess not, of its force or kind; But that it is we know. When ill doth fall Upon us-when our hearts are sear'd and riven— We'll seek the forest land for peace and heaven. ROBERT NICOLL, 1814-1837.

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