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When every

branch has its own favorite bird, And

songs of summer from each thicket heard;
Where the owl flitteth,
Where the roe sitteth,
And holiness

Seems sleeping there :

While Nature's prayer
Goes up to heaven

In purity,
Till all is glory

And joy to me!

High thoughts!

They are my own

When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,
And see below me strown
The huts and homes where humble virtues

blossom. When I can trace each streamlet through the

meadow ;
When I can follow every fitful shadow;
When I can catch the winds among the corn,
And see the waves along the forest borne ;

Where blue-bell and heather
Are blooming together,
And far doth come

The sabbath-bell

O'er wood and fell,
I hear the beating

Of Nature's heart:
Heaven is before me;

God, thou art!

High thoughts!

They visit us
In moments when the soul is dim and

They come to bless

After the vanities to which we hearkened. When weariness hath come upon the spirit, Those hours of darkness which we all inherit, — Bursts there not through a glint of warm sun

A wingèd thought, which bids us not repine ?

In joy and sadness,
In mirth and gladness,
Come signs and tokens:

Life's angel brings

Upon its wings
Those bright communings

The soul doth keep, -
Those thoughts of heaven
So pure and deep.

Robert Nicoll.


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ILT Thou not visit me ?
The plant beside me feels Thy gentle

dew; Each blade of grass I see, From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture


Wilt Thou not visit me ?
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;

hill and tree
Lend but one voice,– the voice of Thee alone.

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Come; for I need Thy love
More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain:

Come, like Thy Holy Dove,
And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again.

Yes, Thou wilt visit me :
Nor plant nor tree Thine eyes delight so well,

As when, from sin set free,
Our spirits come with Thine in peace to dwell.

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HEN winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,
And billows wild contend with angry

'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,

That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,

And silver waves chime ever peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth,

Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.

So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest !

There is a temple sacred evermore, And all the Babel of life's angry voices

Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth:

And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully; And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth, Disturbs the soul that dwells, O Lord ! in thee.

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.



S down in the sunless retreats of the ocean
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can

see; So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee,

My God! silent to thee;
Pure, warm, silent to thee.

As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,

The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea; So dark when I roam, in this wintry world

shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee,

My God! trembling to thee;
True, sure, trembling to thee.

Thomas Moore. 26. THE HYMN OF NATURE



THE heavenly spheres to thee, O God!

Attune their evening hymn:
All-wise, All-holy, thou art praised

In song of seraphim.
Unnumbered systems, suns, and worlds,

Unite to worship thee;
While thy majestic greatness fills

Space, time, eternity.

Nature, a temple worthy thee,

Beams with thy light and love, Whose flowers so sweetly bloom below,

Whose stars rejoice above;
Whose altars are the mountain-cliffs

That rise along the shore;
Whose anthems, the sublime accord

Of storm and ocean roar.

Her song of gratitude is sung

By Spring's awakening hours;
Her Summer offers at thy shrine

Its earliest, loveliest flowers;
Her Autumn brings its golden fruits,

In glorious luxury given;
While Winter's silver heights reflect

Thy brightness back to heaven.


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