The hum of bees, that joyous bear
Their treasure to their homes,-the song
Of birds, that flit the groves among-
The busy brood, that crowd the breeze
With their incessant loom-like sound,
In every bush and brake around,
Cicalas, tenants of the trees-
What mean these unremitting lays,
From wake of morn to closing even,
Resounding thro' the vaults of heav'n?
What? but the great Creator's praise!
Nay, when the sinking sun hath set,
Night owns the measure of her debt.
Still sights and sounds the hours employ,
That speak of love, that speak of joy:
The fire-fly, spangling herb and bower,
The brightest in the darkest hour,
As tho' twere given the earth to lie
A mirror for the starry sky-
The frog, that knows his home and clime,
And croaks his thanks from out the slime
All have a song to lift above,
All have a song of joy and love.
Rude tho' the minstrel-accents seem,
We know the voice, we know the theme.
The burden of their thousand lays,
It rises like a cloud of praise,
From all that creep, from all that swim; From all on earth's broad bosom lying, From all thro' boundless regions flyingHow blest, who draw their life from Him!
My soul, my soul! is this their song,
Whose life with swift-wing'd time is bound,
Whose longings grovel on the ground,
Who, part of man, to man belong?
Shall they rejoice, and thou but weep?
Up! from thy couch of slumber leap!
The mercies that are their's, are thine,
The earthly corn, and oil, and wine;
But far beyond all these transcending,
The azure sky now o'er thee bending,
Which lights all being from above,
Yields thee a Father's smile of love.
All things that now their being know,
All things that know it not, yet grow,
With sparkling eye, and gorgeous coat,
His name, who made them His, denote.
But thou more wond'rous acts can'st scan,
Depths of divine redemption sounding,
Owning, the angelic hosts surrounding,
The Son of God as Son of Man.
Mark the fresh breeze that fans the air,
Now sweetly breathing o'er each flower,
Then, when the storm collects its power,
Rushing, like lion from his lair-
Thou feel'st-but see'st it not, my soul.
Thou know'st not where its billows go,
Or whence they spring in ceaseless flow,
Save only that around they roll,
And wake all tenants of the earth,
To joy in their renewing birth.
Yet sweeter far to thee o'er-worn,
The Spirit's breath than breath of morn;
When, springing from its couch of rest,
It breathes of regions of the blest.
Then gaze around, nor longer bow
To earthly cares thy heav'n-lit brow!
Rich is the world with sights of bliss,
And sounds of earth-born happiness;
But O, a richer kingdom lies,
Beyond the face of azure skies!
Well may'st thou raise thy drooping head,
Thy lines in pleasant places spread,
Sealed and in view a heav'nly throne-
While here, as long as suns shall shine,
A goodly heritage-all thine,
Thou Christ's, and Christ His Father's own! 1
WHAT IS THE CAUSE THAT THE FORMER DAYS WERE BETTER THAN THESE? FOR THOU DOST NOT INQUIRE WISELY CONCERNING THIS.-ECCLES. VII. 10.
THE sun hath scorned this quiet vale,
Ere yet the hours have filled the day;
But let him go-the more I hail
For softer breezes fan the air,
And gentler light beguiles the eye;
And the sweet songs the warblers bear,
Float sweeter by.
And glorious rears each Appenine
Its forehead in the golden heav'n,
While darkling groves of chesnut line
The hues of even.
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