POWERS OF THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.
WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah, whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die-it cannot stay,
But leaves its darkened dust behind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey ?
Eternal, boundless, undecayed,
A thought unseen, but seeing all-
All, all in earth or skies display'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
Each fainter trace that memory holds
So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
And all, that was, at once appears.
Before Creation peopled earth,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back;
And where the furthest heaven had birth,
The spirit trace its rising track:
And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o'er all to be,
While sun is quench'd or system breaks,
Fix'd in its own eternity.
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,
It lives all passionless and pure:
An age shall fleet like earthly year;
Its years as moments shall endure.
Away, away, without a wing,
O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing,
Forgetting what it was to die.
THERE is a calm for those who weep;
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh,
That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil;
To slumber in that dreamless bed
The grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen!-I will speak no more :
Art thou a mourner? hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights,
Endearing days, for ever flown,
And tranquil nights?
O live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past;
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.
Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam;
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.
Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.
Whate'er thy lot-where'er thou be—
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.
A bruised reed he will not break,
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal!
Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate, his providence adore :
'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more.
Now, traveller in the vale of tears,
To realms of everlasting light,
Through time's dark wilderness of years,
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And, while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,
The soul-of origin divine,
God's glorious image-freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,
A star of day!
The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE!
GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES.-A HYMN.
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd
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 offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, 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 sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd
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.
Hath rear'd 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. Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; 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 summits 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,
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