FLOW on forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally-bidding the lip of man
Keep silence and upon thine altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.
The insect-trump that tells her trifling joys
Or fleeting triumphs, 'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he hath need to sleep,
Sometimes, like a spent laborer, calling home
His boisterous billows, from their vexing play,
To a long, dreary calm: but thy strong tide
Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart, forgets
Its everlasting lesson, night nor day.
The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth,
Heard thy hoarse anthem, mixing with their song
Jehovah's name; and the dissolving fires,
That wait the mandate of the day of doom
To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscrib'd
Upon thy rocky scroll.
That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore
Of the too fitful winds; while their young leaves
Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds,
How bold they venture near, dipping their wing
In all thy mist and foam. Perchance 'tis meet
For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir
Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud,
Unblam'd, or warble at the gate of heaven
Without reproof. But, as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our erring lips to talk
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to trace
Thine awful features, with our pencil's point,
Were but to press on Sinai.
Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop
From his right-hand,-bidding the soul that looks
Upon thy fearful majesty, be still,
Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness,
And lose itself in Him.
THY fever'd arms around me,
My little, suffering boy"Tis better thus with thee to watch, Than share in fashion's joy.
The pale nurse-lamp is waning
Upon the shaded hearth,
And dearer is its light to me
Than the gay flambeau's mirth.
I've lov'd the merry viol
That spurs the dancer's heel, And those soft tremblings of the lute O'er summer's eve that steal;
But when hath richest music
Been to my soul so dear,
As that half-broken sob of thine
Which tells that sleep is near?
I knew not half how precious
The cup of life might be,
Till o'er thy cradle bed I knelt,
And learn'd to dream of thee;
Till at the midnight hour I found
Thy head upon my arm,
And saw thy full eye fix'd on mine,
A strong, mysterious charm;
Till at thy first faint lisping
That tear of rapture stole,
Which ever as a pearl had slept
Deep in the secret soul.
A coffin small, and funeral,
With all their sad array,
Gleam as my broken slumbers fleet
On sable wing away.
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