Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Summer Hymn

Summer Hymn.

God of my sires! yon arch of blue,The balmy breeze, that verdant hue,And this warm glow of summer's primeTransport me o'er the bounds of time;To Fancy's gaze new worlds ariseAnd people yonder orient skies;The boundless realms of 'erial spaceHave many a bright and beauteous placeThat earth-born eye may never see;That earth-born thought, howe'er so free,Can image not nor shadow out,Even with the misty trace of doubt.Yet there, O God! like ocean's sand,Strewed on the shelving, surf-beat strand,Innumerous hosts—a countless throng,Spontaneous swell the choral songOf endless praise; for there, as here,All that asks worship, love, or fear;All above, around, below,To Thee, First Cause, their being owe.Thy fiat gave them instant birth;Thou, Thou from chaos called them forth.Vast, awful, measureless, immenseThy power and Thine omnipotence!  But, oh! thy gentle Love,  Softly streaming from above;  Warm as the solar beam of day,  Yet calm and sweet as Hesper's ray. As far—to space's utmost ends,In one glad reign of bliss extends!Before thy strength,—before thy power,'Tis felt,—oh! even in childhood's hour,Or e'er the mind hath garnered thought,Instinct to worship that hath taught!'Tis that which gave yon gushing stream,'Tis that which gave this gladdening beam,This flowery mead, yon spreading lawn,The healthful breeze of early dawn,The yellow broom, yon heather-bell,The primrose blushing in yon dell,The pearly dew that crowns each stem,Each flower, each leaf with many a gemFairer than decks a diadem. And, nor the last nor least, with praiseAnd swelling heart, in artless lays,Giv'st me to kneel before Thy throne,Here, in this temple of Thine own:Its roof yon arch of azure hue,A clear, calm, holy, cloudless blue:Its altar yon steep hills that riseIn misty grandeur to the skies;Its incense that one fleecy cloud,Stainless as infant beauty's shroud;Its matin hymn that swelling noteThat warbles through the lark's clear throat,This humble love, yet strong, sincere,This pensive joy, this happy tearIts worship all. Its priest the thought,With prostrate adoration fraught,That Thou art all in all!—that man, what is he?—nought!