No temples made by earthly hands are known
In this wide globe. For adoration pure,
Nature provides the lofty mountain's brow-
The fertile valley, or the river's marge-
The sea-worn cliff-the headlong cataract-
O'er-shaded forest, or deep dell obscure—
All as their own devotion doth dictate.
No hostile bigotry hath entrance here,
But, all acknowledge one great ruling Pow'r,
To whom they not presume to dictate laws;
Nor to each other are intolerant.
The kind prevailing custom so far sways,
That friendly offices are virtue's gems,
Which, selfishness hath here no pow'r to smirch;
But ever, with benevolent intent,
Each clime contributes to her neighbour's weal.
Though language fail to make our converse known,
Yet sympathetic feeling can translate,
And make e'en foreign natures understood.
First on the list-Love's all-pervading pow'r,
No language, save of Nature, claims the aid;
That faithful agent aims not to deceive,
Nor mysteries veil her truthful oracles.
The varied tribes of animals and plants
That here inhabit, wake to busy life
Each in their own congenial hue of light.
The white sun 'wakens those, whose near approach
In nature to the tribes, that on our earth
Bask in the warm invigorating rays,
That shed their vital influence throughout
The rolling globe's wide surface, and dispense
Life, health, and vigour to all creatures here.
Now, with delightful change, the blue orb rules
O'er those who revel in a softer ray,
And come forth (like our moonlight owls and moths)
To seek their food while other creatures rest.
Anon the red beam wakes the fiercer tribes
(If any here are fierce), that prowl around
Their forest haunts, and spring upon their prey.
What if more huge, unwieldy forms are here
Than the extinct tribes of our nether world,
That peopled once our ancient woods and seas,
Ere man appear'd their ruler, and became
The abject thing he is: selfish and proud;
Daring to libel his great Maker's name,
By teaching his more credulous compeers
That the all-bounteous Author of his life
Is a fell tyrant-"a consuming fire"-
A vengeful being, whose "eternal wrath "1
1 "Adore and tremble, for our God
Is a consuming fire;
His jealous eyes his wrath inflame,
And raise his vengeance high-er."
-Dr. Watts' Hymns, book 1st, hymn 42nd.
The learned Doctor's rhymes are, at least, as correct as his notions of the Deity are flattering! One might imagine he was describing a demon rather than a God! Another morsel may suffice :
"Tempests of angry fire shall roll,
To blast the rebel worm,
And beat upon his naked soul
In one eternal storm!"
How very charitable! Thus do men make the Deity as cruel a being as they would be themselves, if they had the power! The Doctor's cruelty is not even equalled by the abominable atrocities of the "Holy Inquisition" of Rome. Theirs have, at least, a termination in death, as, when they have killed the body, there is no more that they can do; although they may wish it. No doubt the worthy Doctor above quoted believed in the truth of his "eternal", sentence. We hope he has not found it so.
Pursues the feeble creatures of his hand
With "never-ending torture!" Impious thought!
Shall thy poor humble, grateful creature dare
To darken thus the splendour of thy name,
Like a vile fog, that hides thy glorious sun,
Or makes his beauteous orb appear blood-red?
'Tis falsehood all!-detested be the thought.
Give us to know THY TRUTH! Open the eyes
Of blindness, that in thy most holy book
Of NATURE, we may see in every page,
The truthful record of thy works declare―
The LAWS of NATURE are the LAWS of GOD!
In perfect confidence oh let me rest
On Thee and on Thy Providence. Thou art
All Love-all Goodness-all Benevolence-
All Wisdom-Art profound!—exquisite skill
To form and to sustain unnumber'd worlds,
That evermore proclaim Thy mighty power!
The smallest atom that is blest with life,
Thou hast provided for with equal care
As for Leviathan, whose cumb'rous form
Disturb'd the flood uncounted ages past;
Or Icthyosaurian reptile, whose approach
Might scare the lesser monsters of the deep;
Or on the land the Megatherian tread,
That earth sustain'd ere feeble man was made,
And dared to vilify his Maker's name,-
Ascribing qualities that might debase
Even the nature of the reptile tribes;
And make the blessed universe one dreary hell.
Let venal hypocrites say what they will;
Set up their golden idols, fond of blood,
To awe the ignorant, and feed themselves
On choicest dainties at th' expense of fools!
Hurl their anathemas on all who dare
Refuse to pay their tenth, and to bow down
In slavish superstition to the calf
Which they erect to cheat the victim crowd,
First, of their common sense, and then, their gold!
One balmy consolation still is nigh,
To render all that man can say or do
Innocuous. Our future fate lies not
In mortal hands-hangs not on mortal tongue;
Not even on the ban of a proud priest.1
Death from such hands the wretched may endure,
And that is all-there, mortal malice ends.
Blesséd restraint of Providence Divine.
Byron, thou'rt right-away with earth-born ills,
While through this Heav'n we soar in ecstacy
To worlds so far superior to our own,
1 It has been asserted that the Italian poet Dante was excommunicated after death by the Pope. If that be the case, it is well that "our future fate”—“hangs not on mortal tongue."
And find how human arguments fall short
Of heav'nly truth. Thou, Byron, dost know
How stoutly it hath been by some maintain'd,
"Our world's the best of all that's possible"
To God! Vain man would limit divine pow'r,
Not reckoning how limited his own,
When reasoning on things beyond his ken.
Well, well-I know we cannot here remain ;
Let us depart-our flight is "limited;"
We must away, howe'er unwilling now
To quit this heav'nly earth, so beautiful!
So sweetly beautiful, and grand, and good
Its varied hues, and constancy of light,
Compar'd with our oft murky little world
Of fogs, malaria, and selfishness.
Call me not misanthrope, friend Byron, pray,
Nor cynic, nor ascetic-I am neither.
Remember thine own "English summer" taunt,
"Three hot days and the end a thunder-storm."
"Our winters end in July, to begin
Again in August!"-Wert thou not a caviller?
Now I would make our own poor world a heav'n,
If with its passions-fashions-customs, I might cope,
Dismiss the evil, and retain the good.
But that Herculean task is beyond hope,
The cleansing would require a second flood!
The means to moderate our climates are
Within our reach, not few, if man would use
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