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,

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. Oh, 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 seem'd
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them; and there have been
holy men
Who deem'd 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. Oh, 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?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the
wrath

Of the mad, unchain'd 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.

LINES ON MARCH.

THE stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies
I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild stormy month! in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again

And thou hast joined the gentle train, The glad and glorious sun dost bring,

And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,

Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing along the gushing rills,

And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides

Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,

And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.

AUTUMN WOODS.

ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold In their wide sweep the colour'd landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,

Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.