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September noon, has bathed his heated brow
Is there no other change for thee, that lurks Among the future ages? Will not man Seek out strange arts to wither and deform The pleasant landscape which thou makest green ? Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more For ever, that the water-plants along Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou Gush midway from the bare and barren steep?
MARIUS SEATED ON THE RUINS
BY MRS. M. L. CHILD.
PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,
No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
It cannot bend thy lofty soul
And genius hath electric power,
The dreams we loved in early life,
And proud hopes in the human heart
Yet, there is something will not die,
GOD IN NATURE.
BY H. W. ROCKWELL.
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
He spans the spangled skies; He speaks, and in its palaces
The midnight thunder cries !
He wields the awful lightning-brand,
The war-torch of the storm, Whether upon the Northern pines
It rocks its cloud-wrapt form;
Or, conquering, tramps right royally
The hollow-sounding seas, Or holds high carnival among
The crashing mountain trees !
His earthquakes shake the eternal hills
And toss "old ocean's locks;"
GOD IN NATURE.
The hungry breakers howl amain,
Between the dreadful shocks :
And the swift whirlwind spinning o'er
The mountain bald and pale,
That thunders in the vale.
He sows death in the red simoon,
And cities shrink aghast;
In horrid gloom, moves past !
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts !
Of all earth's kings, the King ! Behold! he shakes the mountain pine,
And plumes the whirlwind's wing !
And from his throne of majesty,
Upon the bended sky,
His all-beholding eye!