THE GROVES were God's first temples. Ere man learned

    To hew the shaft and lay the architrave

    And spread the roof above them—ere he framed

    The lofty vault to gather and roll back

    The sound of anthems； in the darkling wood

    Amidst the cool and silence he knelt down

    And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

    And supplication. For his simple heart

    Might not resist the sacred influences

    Which from the stilly twilight of the place

    And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

    Mingled their mossy boughs and from the sound

    Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

    All their green tops stole over him and bowed

    His spirit with the thought of boundless power

    And inaccessible majesty. Ah why

    Should we in the world's riper years neglect

    God's ancient sanctuaries and adore

    Only among the crowd and under roofs

    That our frail hands have raised？ Let me at least

    Here in the shadow of this aged wood

    Offer one hymn—thrice happy if it find

    Acceptance in His ear.

    Father thy hand

    Hath reared these venerable columns thou

    Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

    Upon the naked earth and forthwith rose

    All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun

    Budded and shook their green leaves in thy breeze

    And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow

    Whose birth was in their tops grew old and died

    Among their branches till at last they stood

    As now they stand massy and tall and dark

    Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold

    Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults

    These winding aisles of human pomp or pride

    Report not. No fantastic carvings show

    The boast of our vain race to change the form

    Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'st

    The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

    That run along the summit of these trees

    In music； thou art in the cooler breath

    That from the inmost darkness of the place

    Comes scarcely felt； the barky trunks the ground

    The fresh moist ground are all instinct with thee.

    Here is continual worship；—Nature here

    In the tranquillity that thou dost love

    Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around

    From perch to perch the solitary bird

    Passes； and yon clear spring that midst its herbs

    Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

    Of half the mighty forest tells no tale

    Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

    Thyself without a witness in these shades

    Of thy perfections. Grandeur strength and grace

    Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak —

    By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

    Almost annihilated—not a prince

    In all that proud old world beyond the deep

    E'er wore his crown as loftily as he

    Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

    Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root

    Is beauty such as blooms not in the glare

    Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower

    With scented breath and look so like a smile

    Seems as it issues from the shapeless mould

    An emanation of the indwelling Life

    A visible token of the upholding Love

    That are the soul of this great universe.

    My heart is awed within me when I think

    Of the great miracle that still goes on

    In silence round me—the perpetual work

    Of thy creation finished yet renewed

    Forever. Written on thy works I read

    The lesson of thy own eternity.

    Lo！ all grow old and die—but see again

    How on the faltering footsteps of decay

    Youth presses —ever-gay and beautiful youth

    In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

    Wave not less proudly that their ancestors

    Moulder beneath them. O there is not lost

    One of earth's charms： upon her bosom yet

    After the flight of untold centuries

    The freshness of her far beginning lies

    And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

    Of his arch-enemy Death—yea seats himself

    Upon the tyrant's throne—the sepulchre

    And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

    Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth

    From thine own bosom and shall have no end.

    There have been holy men who hid themselves

    Deep in the woody wilderness and gave

    Their lives to thought and prayer till they outlived

    The generation born with them nor seemed

    Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks

    Around them；—and there have been holy men

    Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.

    But let me often to these solitudes

    Retire and in thy presence reassure

    My feeble virtue. Here its enemies

    The passions at thy plainer footsteps shrink

    And tremble and are still. O God！ when thou

    Dost scare the world with tempests set on fire

    The heavens with falling thunderbolts or fill

    With all the waters of the firmament

    The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods

    And drowns the villages； when at thy call

    Uprises the great deep and throws himself

    Upon the continent and overwhelms

    Its cities—who forgets not at the sight

    Of these tremendous tokens of thy power

    His pride and lays his strifes and follies by？

    O from these sterner aspects of thy face

    Spare me and mine nor let us need the wrath

    Of the mad unchainèd elements to teach

    Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate

    In these calm shades thy milder majesty

    And to the beautiful order of thy works

    Learn to conform the order of our lives.