beechen grove, we find this idea the most complete. The lofty, narrow aisle-the pointed arch-the clustered pillar, whose parts separating without violence, diverge gradually to form the fretted roof-find there perhaps their earliest archetype. Bryant has wrought out this idea in a beautiful fragment, entitled "God's First Temples :"
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless Power
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least,
Here in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker.
No traces of man's pomp or pride;-no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here-thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summits of these trees
In music;-thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt ;-the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship;-nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak- By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated-not a prince,
In all the proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me-the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
For ever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again, How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly than their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death-yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them;-and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities; who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face, Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives.
We will conclude this Introduction by recommending the reader, in the words of the poet, to enjoy the sweet calmness of the Woodland retreat :
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou would'st forget
If thou would'st read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!-no tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears.
STRANGER, if thou hast learnt a truth, which needs Experience more than reason, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast known Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares, To tire thee of it,-enter this wild wood,
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze, That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a halm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. Misery is wed
To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes Of undissembled gladness: the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while, below,
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment: as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them; twisting high Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
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