And here upon this rock I lie,
Gazing up into heaven;
Watching the swallows of the sky,
Upward and upward driven;
Or watching the clouds, that, one by one, Quietly melt into the sun.
Oh, would that the deep rest that fills
This scene, might leave me never!
Would that the circuit of these hills
Might shut me in forever!
For wisdom, prize it as I may,
I'll not thus give my life away.
Oh, joyously I would come back,
As the tired bird comes home;
That, wearied with her high bright track,
Far through the azure dome-
At eve, drops down into her nest,
To lean upon one faithful breast!
"Look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in its motion like an angel sings
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim.”
SILENCE, and Night! it is the time for thought;
And the lone dreamer sends his weary eye,
Out from the casement, up to the dim stars;
And deems that from those rolling worlds comes to him
A cheering voice. How beautiful they are-
Those sparkling fires in that eternal void!
They seem like jewels on the crown of Him,
The Lord! the Crucified! They do hang there,
Bright, as when bursting o'er this lower world
Then heaving into beauty-the fair lands,
Valleys, and hills; the streams, the lakes, the seas,
With their blue depths; the ocean, with its waves
Restless forever-as when these burst forth,
And over them God spread this canopy
Of grandeur and of glory!
Emblems of his great hand who placed them there,
And bade them roll to one eternal hymn
Of heavenly harmony! Away-away
Farther and farther on, thought flies; and yet
Reaches them not. Beyond the wild blue track
Of this our world, it sweeps; beyond the track
Of that ring'd orb, the heathen deified,
Old Saturn named; beyond the path of that
They called the Thunderer; ay! and beyond
The track sublime of our great burning orb,
Hanging alone in heaven-beyond all these,
Thought, seraph-winged, sweeps daringly, and yet
Reaches not the first trace of those far fires,
Glowing yet never fading; myriads burning
In the blue concave, where no thought may pierce,
Save the Eternal's. And yet those bright orbs
Created were, and in harmonious march
Traverse the air together. Not one of all
Those sparkling points of scarce distinguishable flame,
But hath its part and place in that grand scheme
Fixed by the God of Heaven. Laws, times, place,
motions,
All these each hath; and there they roll forever,
Changing and yet unchanged. The wilder'd mind
Turns from the scene amazed, and asks itself
If this can be!
And yet, how fancy dreams
Of those bright worlds! Tell us, ye unseen Powers,
Ye that do gather round us in these hours
When the impassion'd world lies locked in sleep,
And the day's whirl is over-tell us here,
What are those rolling worlds!
Such as we dream of here?
Robed in such hues as this?
Are there bright scenes,
Are there fair realms,
Do wild hills there,
Heave their high tops to such a bright blue heaven
As this which spans our world? Have they rocks there,
Ragged and thunder-rent, through whose wild chasms
Leap the white cataracts, and wreath the woods
With rainbow coronets? Spread such bright vales
There in the sunlight; cots, and villages;
Turrets, and towers, and temples-dwell these there,
Glowing with beauty? Wilderness and wild,
Heaving and rolling their green tops, and ringing
With the glad notes of myriad-colored birds
Singing of happiness-have they these there?
Spread such bright plains there to th' admiring eye,
Veined by glad brooks, that, to the loose white stones,
Tell their complaint all day? Waves, spreading sheets,
That mirror the white clouds; and moon, and stars,
Making a mimic heaven? Streams, mighty streams!
Waters, resistless floods! that, rolling on,
Gather like seas, and heave their waves about,
Mocking the tempest? Ocean! those vast tides,
Tumbling about the globe with a wild roar
From age to age? And tell us, do those worlds
Change like our own? Comes there, the merry Spring,
Soft and sweet-voiced; and in its hands the wealth
Of leaves to deck the forest; flowers, and scatter'd
In the green vales and on the slopes, to fling
Over a faery world; and feathery winds,
And airs, and smiling sunshine; birds, and bees,
Filling the soft savannas with the sound
Of their low murmurings? Have they the months
Of the full Summer, with its skies, and clouds,
And suns, and showers, and soothing fragrance sent
Up from a thousand tubes? And Autumn, too,
Pensive and pale-do these sweet days come there,
Wreathing the wilderness with such gay bands.
Of brightness and of beauty, till the earth,
Late fresh and flowering, seems like some fair bride,
Met, in the month of dalliance, with the frost
Of a too killing sorrow? And sublime—
Within his grasp the whirlwinds, and his brows
White with the storm of ages, and his breath
Fettering the streams, and ribbing the old hills
With ice, and sleet, and snow; and far along
The sounding ocean's side, his frosty chains
Flinging, till the wild waves grow mute, or mutter
Only in their dread caves-old Winter! he-
Have you him there? And tell us, hath a God,
Sentient and wise, placed there the abstruser realm
Of thinking and of feeling? Have ye minds,
Grasping and great like ours? And reaching souls,
That, spurning their prison, burst away, and soar
Up to a mightier converse, than the rounds
Of a dull daily being? And warm hearts,
Do they dwell there? Hearts fondly lock'd to hearts, Into each other's natures pouring wildly,
Floods of deep feeling, and a life so sweet
Death doth but make it sweeter? Have ye dreamers,
Young hearts! proud souls! that catch from every thing,
A greatness and a grandeur of delight,
That common souls feel not?-souls that do dwell
Only in thoughts of beauty, linking forth
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