Pray-Christian-pray, At the bonny peep of dawn, W. P. PALMER, LIGHT. FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom The sun rolled black and bare, Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast, I pencilled the hue of its matchless blue, I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes And when the fiend's art, on her trustful heart, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast, Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born- Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend; E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears, Feel my smile the best smile of a friend: Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of kings; As the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her bowers, And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, gaze with unslumbering eye, I When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from the sky; And guided by me through the merciless sea, I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, Or, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, What glories must rest on the home of the blessed, THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. THE Ocean looketh up to heaven, WHITTIER. They kneel upon the sloping sand, They pour the glittering treasures out The green earth sends its incense up The forest-tops are lowly cast The clouds weep o'er the fallen world, E'en as repentant love; Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurled, The sky is as a temple's arch, Is glorious with the spirit-march Of messengers at prayer. The gentle moon, the kindling sun, The many stars are given As shrines to burn earth's incense on, The altar-fires of Heaven! FINGAL AT CARRIC-THURA., OSSIAN. MORNING rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers! But the sign of distress was on their top: the warning flame edged with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coast: he looks back to the lag ging winds. His hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the king is terrible! Night came down on the sea: Rotha's bay received the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread round; but the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief distrest. The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's tower. The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high. Son of night, retire; call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda! Weak is thy shield of clouds; feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy winds, and fly! Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my nostrils pour the blasts of death. I come abroad on the winds; the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from my hills into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven? No! he knows the weakness of their arms! Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive thy wind and fly? The blasts are in the hollow of my hand; the course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath. He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into the air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with fear; the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears. They missed the king: they rose in rage; all their arms resound! |