As if immortal,- have been swept away,-
Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot.
But time has shed no dimness on thy front,
Nor touched the firmness of thy tread; youth, strength,
And beauty, still are thine,— as clear, as bright,
As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth,
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill,
To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim
The eternal chorus of Eternal Love.
I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light,
Undimmed, unquenched, just as I see it now, -
Has issued from those dazzling points, through years
That go back far into eternity.
Exhaustless flood! for ever spent, renewed
For ever! Yea, and those refulgent drops,
Which now descend upon my lifted eye,
Left their far fountain twice three years ago.
While those winged particles whose speed outstrips
The flight of thought—were on their way, the earth
Compassed its tedious circuit round and round,
And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld
Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom.
So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve!
So vast the void through which their beams descend!
Yea, glorious lamps of God! He may have quenched
Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night
Rest on your spheres; and yet no tidings reach
This distant planet. Messengers still come
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem
To see your light still burning; while their blaze
But hides the black wreck of extinguished realms,
Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned.
Yet what is this, which to the astonished mind
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought
Confounds? A span, a point, in those domains
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars
Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight
Embraces all at once; yet each from each
Recedes as far as each of them from earth;
And every star from every other burns
No less remote. From the profound of heaven,
Untravelled even in thought, keen, piercing rays
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense
Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass
And search the skies. The opening skies pour down
Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire,—
Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote,
That their swift beams- - the swiftest things that be-
Have travelled centuries on their flight to earth.
Earth, Sun, and nearer Constellations! what
ye, amid this infinite extent
And multitude of God's most infinite works?
And these are suns!- vast, central, living fires, Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds
That wait as satellites upon their power,
And flourish in their smile.
Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds!·
Worlds, in whose bosoms living things rejoice,
And drink the bliss of being from the fount
Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know,
What tongue can utter, all their multitudes, —
Thus numberless in numberless abodes,
Known but to Thee, blest Father? Thine they are,
Thy children, and thy care, and none o'erlooked
Of Thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwells
Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course
Amid the giant glories of the sky,
Like the mean mote that dances in the beam
Among the thousand mirrored lamps, which fling
The wasteful splendor from the palace wall.
None, none escape the kindness of thy care:
All compassed underneath Thy spacious wing,
Each fed and guided by Thy powerful hand.
Tell me, ye splendid Orbs! -
Ye mark the rolling provinces that own
what beings fill those bright abodes?
How formed, how gifted; what their powers, their state,
Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bear
The stamp of human nature? Or has God
Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms
And more celestial minds? Does Innocence
Still wear her native and untainted bloom?
Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad,
And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers?
Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire?
And Slavery forged his chains, and Wrath, and Hate,
And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust,
Leagued their base bands to tread out Light and Truth,
And scattered woe where Heaven has planted joy?
Or are they yet all Paradise, unfallen
And uncorrupt; existence one long joy,
Without disease upon the frame, or sin
Upon the heart, or weariness of life,
Hope never quenched, and age unknown,
And death unfeared; while fresh and fadeless youth
Glows in the light from God's near throne of Love?
Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!
Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds
Unfold! No language! Everlasting light,
And everlasting silence! — Yet the eye
May read and understand. The hand of God
Has written legibly what man may know,
THE GLORY OF THE MAKER. There it shines,
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe,
May know and ask no more.
When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings,
Its range shall be extended; it shall roam,
Perchance, among those vast mysterious spheres,
Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each
Familiar with its children, - learn their laws,
And share their state, and study and adore
The infinite varieties of bliss
And beauty, by the hand of Power divine
Lavished on all its works. Eternity
Shall thus roll on with ever-fresh delight;
No
pause of pleasure or improvement; world
On world still opening to the instructed mind
An unexhausted universe, and time
But adding to its glories; while the soul,
Advancing ever to the Source of light
And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns,
In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss.
The Garden of Eden.—MILTON.
Eden stretched her line
From Auran eastward to the royal towers
Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings,
Or where the sons of Eden long before
Dwelt in Telassar: in this pleasant soil
His far more pleasant garden God ordained:
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow
All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;
And all amid them stood the tree of life,
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold; and next to life,
Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,
Knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill.
Southward through Eden went a river large,
Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill
Passed underneath engulfed; for God had thrown
That mountain as his garden-mould high-raised
Upon the rapid current, which through veins
Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn,
Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill
Watered the garden; thence united fell
Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood,
Which from his darksome passage now appears,
And, now divided into four main streams,
Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm
And country, whereof here needs no account;
But rather to tell how, if art could tell,
How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold,
With mazy error under pendent shades
Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice art
In beds and curious knots, but nature's boon
Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
Imbrowned the noontide bowers: thus was this place
A happy rural seat of various views;
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm;
Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind,
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,
If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,
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