THE full-orbed moon has reached no higher,
Than yon old church's mossy spire,
And seems, as gliding up the air,
She saw the fane; and, pausing there,
Would worship, in the tranquil night,
The Prince of peace-the Source of light,
Where man for God prepared the place,
And God to man unveils his face.
In silence, she is casting down;
And, as a creature of the earth,
She feels her lowliness of birth-
Her weakness and inconstancy
Before unchanging purity!
Pale traveller, on thy lonely way,
'Tis well thine homage thus to pay;
To reverence that ancient pile,
And spread thy silver o'er the aisle,
Which many a pious foot has trod,
That now is dust beneath the sod;
Where many a sacred tear was wept,
From eyes that long in death have slept
The temple's builders-where are they? The worshippers ?-all passed away, Who came the first, to offer there
The song of praise, the heart of prayer! Man's generation passes soon;
It wanes and changes like the moon.
He rears the perishable wall;
But, ere it crumbles, he must fall!
he pallid king? no spark, to save -om darkness, ashes, and the grave? hou holy place, the answer, wrought thy firm structure, bars the thought! he spirit that established thee,
or death, nor darkness e'er shall see!
GOD of the mighty sea!-wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axle bow-
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-winged and wild,
Trample upon the waves about them piled
By the strong storm-god, whirling thy swift car
Each way among the winds, that near and far
Yell out for pleasure, tossing crested foam
Upon their floating manes, and on their sides
Of glossy blackness-god of the torn sea
And stormy waters-thou from whom ships flee,
Or sink into thy waves-god of the mighty storm,
And of fierce winds that on the ocean swarm-
God of the roar, the foam, the thunder crash
Of angry waves-the low and sullen dash
That waters make, while far beneath they flow
Over some storm-wreck-we thy great power know,
And call thee to our offering. Come and drive
Thy chariots to our shore, and see us strive
To do thee honour. Come! with thy fierce crowd
Of fleeting winds-O god, most strong and proud!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet sea-no wind-tossed foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely
They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
Fanning the waves with slowly floating manes,
But late storm-driven. Haply, silver strains,
From trumpets spirit-blown, about thee ring;
And green-robed sea-gods, unto thee their king,
Sing, loud in praise. Apollo now doth gaze
With friendly looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes—a pleasant warm
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds
That Eolus within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings-perhaps below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
|
