| |
| GOD 1 of the earth’s extended plains! | |
| The dark green fields contented lie: | |
| The mountains rise like holy towers, | |
| Where man might commune with the sky: | |
| The tall cliff challenges the storm | 5 |
| That lowers upon the vale below, | |
| Where shaded fountains send their streams, | |
| With joyous music in their flow. | |
| |
| God of the dark and heavy deep! | |
| The waves lie sleeping on the sands, | 10 |
| Till the fierce trumpet of the storm | |
| Hath summon’d up their thundering bands; | |
| Then the white sails are dash’d like foam, | |
| Or hurry trembling, o’er the seas, | |
| Till calm’d by thee, the sinking gale | 15 |
| Serenely breathes, “Depart in peace.’ | |
| |
| God of the forest’s solemn shade! | |
| The grandeur of the lonely tree, | |
| That wrestles singly with the gale, | |
| Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; | 20 |
| But more majestic far they stand, | |
| When side by side, their ranks they form, | |
| To wave on high their plumes of green, | |
| And fight their battles with the storm. | |
| |
| God of the light and viewless air! | 25 |
| Where summer breezes sweetly flow, | |
| Or, gathering in their angry might, | |
| The fierce and wintry tempests blow; | |
| All—from the evening’s plaintive sigh, | |
| That hardly lifts the drooping flower, | 30 |
| To the wild whirlwind’s midnight cry— | |
| Breathes forth the language of thy power. | |
| |
| God of the fair and open sky! | |
| How gloriously above us springs | |
| The tented dome, of heavenly blue, | 35 |
| Suspended on the rainbow’s wings; | |
| Each brilliant star, that sparkles through | |
| Each gilded cloud, that wanders free | |
| In evening’s purple radiance, gives | |
| The beauty of its praise to thee. | 40 |
| |
| God of the rolling orbs above! | |
| Thy name is written clearly bright | |
| In the warm day’s unvarying blaze, | |
| Or evening’s golden shower of light. | |
| For every fire that fronts the sun, | 45 |
| And every spark that walks alone | |
| Around the utmost verge of heaven, | |
| Were kindled at thy burning throne. | |
| |
| God of the world! thy hour must come, | |
| And nature’s self to dust return! | 50 |
| Her crumbling altars must decay! | |
| Her incense fires shall cease to burn! | |
| But still her grand and lovely scenes | |
| Have made man’s warmest praises flow; | |
| For hearts grow holier as they trace | 55 |
| The beauty of the world below. | |
