EXTRACT FROM "THE VERNAL WALK," WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S SEVENTEENTH YEAR.
OH, Thou that sway'st the boundless universe!
King of illimitable empire! hear
My trembling voice of praise. I know Thou art;
But when my soul would raise her eyes to Thee,
Vainly I try to grasp so vast a view;
For in thy half-reveal'd sublimity,
Holding the reins of universal rule,
Thou sitt'st invisible upon the throne
Of universal nature, and behold'st
A vast immensity, fill'd by Thyself.
Spirit of spirits! ere the eagle flew,
Ere the worm crawl'd, ere sang the love-taught wren,
Or man, erect, before Thee stood and smiled,
Thou hadst existed an eternity
Of thoughtful ages: ere there lived one soul
To worship thee, oh, God of Holiness!
Wrapt in incomprehensibility,
Pleased with self-contemplation, Thou didst muse
In silence on thine own eternal thoughts.
Through all extent Thou piercest; nothing is
Where Thou art not; even in me Thou dwell'st.
Thou mov'st the strings of mental melody
Which tune my soul to harmony and love.
Thou bid'st my fancy soar to realms of light,
Bid'st reason-holy reason-muse on Thee
And in thy works behold Thee, throned o'er heights
And depths of glory inaccessible.
I, in the majesty of nature, see
The greatness of eternal Majesty;
I, in her smiling scenery, behold
The bounteous smile of beauty infinite.
Thy goodness is unbounded, God of Love!
Here or wherever Uncreated Light
Flames of the sea of ever-vital beams
World-peopled, as this vernal air with birds-
Father and God! thy sons shall worship Thee!
WHY shouts Quebec? Why rolls from all her towers
The peal of gladness, through the midnight air,
O'er moving crowds? Why do her casements blaze,
Her torches flash, in lines of restless light?
Great Montcalm is return'd with victory,
And moves in triumph through her blazing streets.
Before him glide Canadian maids, white-robed-
War-widow'd virgins, on whose pensive cheeks
The blush of health had faded into snow.
Life, life, how heav'nly graceful are thy forms,
In joy or sorrow! Soft as sleep they move,
High-waving o'er their heads the spotless lawn,
And scattering roses at his proud steed's feet.
Quebec pours forth her people, young and old,
To see again her great deliverer.
The war-unchilded mother, and the boy
Whose sire had fall'n in battle, came abroad;
Even the friendless, aged, houseless man
Cast on his ruin'd dwelling, as he pass'd,
But one brief glance, then, dancing with the young, Follow'd the glad procession and rejoiced.
The soldier's widow sought the crowded streets;
Oh, deem not that her true heart could forget
Her low-laid husband! No! with mournful smiles
She thought of him and wept; but while she view'd
The glittering scene, those sad smiles seem'd to say,
"And he, too, was a soldier." • Did not, then,
Love-lorn Miranion of the down-cast eye
Steal to the lattice of her tower to gaze?
She (stately nun! angelic exile! torn
From nature's bosom !) on the various throng
Look'd pale and anxious. Soon again she saw,
Herself unseen, yet mute and timidly,
Though with energic pensiveness, the lord
Of her affections, Montcalm. Loftier seem'd
His martial beauty, darker his large eye,
With triumph fired; and god-like headvanced,
To redivorce her vows. Unhappy maid!
Why was she born? All-ignorant is he
What cause he hath to feel ennobling pride-
Miranion loves him! but he knows it not.
He reins his foamy steed; the mighty crowd
Halts, and is hush'd, and living statues hold
Unnumber'd torches still! She sees no torch,
She sees no crowd, her eyes are fix'd on him.
He waves his hand, he bows in act to speak;
Forward she bends; she listens motionless;
Hangs on his lips, and breathless drinks his speech,
As if the words that should pronounce her death,
Quiver'd for awful utterance on his tongue.
"France is victorious; Ever fortunate!
She, mistress of the nations, shall extend
The limits of her sway. Columbia spreads
The verdure of unbounded wilds, and rolls
Her rivers rivalless, to load with wealth
Our noble country; and the vanquish'd seas
Shall bound her greatness with their amplitude;
For England, like a wintry sun, descends,
Nor shall the sloping orb, return'd, arise
Again to glory. Laud the Lord of Hosts!
The maple, and the monarch of the woods,
Magnolia, now in praise lift up their hands,
To measureless Missouri's serpent folds.
I see the unborn glory of this land—
Her sons, high-destined, her immortal men,
The stately children of futurity.
Laud, then, the God of Battles, my loved friends!
Calamity hath worn you, war hath sown
Your streets with woe; but better days approach.
Go to your homes, and to your little ones
Say-Ruin hath stalk'd near us, with a frown
That awed, but blasted not-the storm is past."
So said he, hapless in his prophecy,
And, from the throng retiring, sought repose.
Then, as a catacomb's vast silence, soon
The living scene was hush'd; a silent crowd,
A peopled solitude-the city slept.
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