W. B. 0. PEABODY.

[U. S. A., 1799-1848.]

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their

streams,

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering

W. A. MUHLENBERG.

[U. S. A.]

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

bands;

Then the white sails are dashed like foam, I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return!
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense tires shall cease to burn!

But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

stay

Where storm after storm rises dark o'er
the way;
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover
around

Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;

Where hope, when she paints her gay Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night bow in the air,

of despair,

And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad

ray,

Save the gleam of the plumage that bears
him away.

I would not live alway, thus fettered by
sin,
Temptation without, and corruption
within;

In a moment of strength, if I sever the
chain,

Scarce the victory is mine ere I'm captive again.

E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,

And the cup of thanksgiving with peni

tent tears.

The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway: no, welcome
the tomb;
Immortality's lamp burns there bright
mid the gloom.

There, too, is the pillow where Christ | The place is little changed, Mary;
bowed his head;
The day's as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your warm breath on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You nevermore may speak.

O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night,

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight,

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers

arise

To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies.

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