THE SPIRIT LAND. FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell; WORSHIP. THERE is no worship now, the idol stands Within the spirit's holy resting place! Millions before it bend with upraised hands, 2 THE SOLDIER. He was not armed like those of eastern clime, Whose pompous rites proclaim how vain their prayer; spare; But he nor steel nor sacred robe had on, THE TREES OF LIFE. For those who worship Thee there is no death, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink THE SPIRIT. I WOULD not breathe, when blows thy mighty wind O'er desolate hill and winter-blasted plain, But stand in waiting hope if I may find Each flower recalled to newer life again That now unsightly hides itself from Thee, Amid the leaves or rustling grasses dry, With ice-cased rock and snowy-mantled tree Ashamed lest Thou its nakedness should spy; But Thou shalt breathe and every rattling bough *Shall gather leaves; each rock with rivers flow; And they that hide them from thy presence now In new found robes along thy path shall glow, And meadows at thy coming fall and rise, Their green waves sprinkled with a thousand eyes.. |