To give thy weak arm strength, to make thy dim eye see. Seek TRUTH-that pure, celestial Truth, whose birth Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred shrined, In reason's light. Not oft she visits earth; But her majestic port the willing mind, Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll. Be FREE-not chiefly from the iron chain, The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free. Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet, And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet. Seek VIRTUE. Wear her armor to the fight; And, having found, be strong in God's own strength and thine. HYMN OF NATURE. 165 TRUTH-FREEDOM-VIRTUE-these, dear child, have power, If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour: Neglect them-thy celestial gifts are vain— In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled; Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled. HYMN OF NATURE. BY W. B. 0. PEABODY. GOD of the earth's extended plains! That lowers upon the vale below, God of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Hath summoned up their thundering bands 166 HYMN OF NATURE. Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale God of the forest's solemn shade! When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air! The fierce and wintry tempests blow; God of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. God of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright And every spark that walks alone God of the world! the hour must come, Her incense fires shall cease to burn; 167 THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. BY R. H. DANA. THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, O'er the waves dost thou fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! 168 THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wailWhat does it bring to me? Thou callest along the sand, and hauntest the surge Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord With motion, and with roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge— The Mystery-the Word, Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall, A tale of mourning tells- Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. |