Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,
But still half of the globe is thine.
Here with a quiet, and yet aweful hand,
Like the best emperours thou dost command.
To thee the stars above their brightness owe,
And mortals their repose below.
To thy protection Fear and Sorrow flee,
And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
Tho' light and glory be th' Almighty's throne,
Darkness is His pavilion.
From that His radiant beauty, but from thee
He has His terror and His majesty.
Thus when He first proclaim'd His sacred Law,
And would His rebel subjects awe,
Like princes on some great solemnity,
H' appear'd in's robes of State, and clad Himself
The blest above do thy sweet umbrage* prize,
When cloy'd with light, they veil their eyes.
The vision of the Deity is made
More sweet and beatifick by thy shade.
But we poor tenants of this orb below
Don't here thy excellencies know,
Till Death our understandings does improve,
And then our wiser ghosts thy silent night-walks love.
But thee I now admire, thee would I chuse
For my religion, or my Muse.
'Tis hard to tell whether thy reverend shade
Has more good votaries or poets made,
From thy dark caves were inspirations given, And from thick groves went vows to Heaven. Hail then thou Muse's and Devotion's spring, 'Tis just we should adore, 'tis just we should thee sing.
N the hollows of the mountains,
In the valleys spreading from
Stand the rustling broad-leaved
Trees whose leaves are shed in
Underneath them lie the leaf beds,
Resting one upon another,
Laid there yearly by the storm winds;
Pressed and smoothed by winter snow-drifts.
In the days of spring migrations,
Days when warbler hosts move northward,
To the forests, to the leaf beds,
Comes the tiny oven builder.
Daintily the leaves he tiptoes;
Underneath them builds his oven,
Arched and framed with last year's oak leaves,
Roofed and walled against the raindrops.
Hour by hour his voice he raises,
Mingling with the red-eye's snatches,
Answering to the hermit's anthem;
Rising-falling, like a wind breath.
Strange, ventriloquous his music,
when close beside one;
away
Near at hand when seeming distant;
Weird his plaintive accrescendo.
Teach us! teach us! is his asking,
Uttered to the Omnipresent:
Teach us! teach us! comes responsive
From the solemn listening forest.
When the whip-poor-will is clucking,
When the bats unfurl their canvas,
When dim twilight rules the forest,
Soaring towards the high star's radiance
Far above the highest treetop,
Singing goes this sweet Accentor.
Noontide never sees this soaring,
Midday never hears this music,
Only at the hour of slumber,
Only once, as day is dying,
When the perils and the sorrows,
When the blessings and the raptures,
One and all have joined the finished,
Does this sweet-toned forest singer
Urge his wings towards endless ether,
Hover high a single moment
Pouring out his spirit's gladness
Toward the Source of life and being.
THE SNOW-FILLED NEST
By Rose Terry Cooke
T swings upon the leafless tree,
By stormy winds blown to and
fro;
Deserted, lonely, sad to see.
And full of cruel snow.
In summer's noon the leaves
above
Made dewy shelter from the heat;
The nest was full of life and love;
Ah, life and love are sweet!
The tender brooding of the day,
The silent, peaceful dreams of night,
The joys that patience overpay,
The cry of young delight,
The song that through the branches rings,
The nestling crowd with eager eyes,
The flutter soft of untried wings,
The flight of glad surprise :
All, all are gone! I know not where;
And still upon the cold gray tree,
Lonely, and tossed by every air,
That snow-filled nest I see.
I, too, had once a place of rest,
Where life, and love, and peace were mine
Even as the wild-birds build their nest,
When skies and summer shine.
But winter came, the leaves were dead;
The mother-bird was first to go,
The nestlings from my sight have fled;
The nest is full of snow.
THE WISTFUL DAYS
By Robert Underwood Johnson
HAT is there wanting in the
Spring?
Soft is the air as yester
The happy-nested green is
And half the world is on the
The morning beckons, and like balm
Are westward waters blue and calm.
Yet something's wanting in the Spring.
What is it wanting in the Spring?
O April, lover to us all,
What is so poignant in thy thrall
When children's merry voices ring?
What haunts us in the cooing dove
More subtle than the speech of Love,
What nameless lack or loss of Spring?
Let Youth go dally with the Spring,
Call her the dear, the fair, the young;
And all her graces
ever sung
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