Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/10

Of his own vain device. Perchance, even here,
Neath all the sternness of thy strong rebuke,
Light fancies fill him, and he gathereth straws
Or plaiteth rushes, or illusive twines
Garlands of hope, more fragile still than they.

But in one awful voice, that ne'er has known
Change or inflection since the morn of time,
Thou utterest forth that One Eternal Name,
Which he who graves not on his inmost soul
Will find his proudest gatherings, as the dross
That cannot profit.
                              Thou hast ne'er forgot
Thy lesson, or been weary, day or night,
Nor with its simple, elemental thought
Mixed aught of discord.
                               Teacher, sent from God,
We bow us to thy message, and are still.

Oh! full of glory, and of majesty,
With all thy terrible apparel on,
High-priest of Nature, who within the veil,
Mysterious, unapproachable dost dwell,
With smoke of incense ever streaming up,
And round thy breast, the folded bow of heaven,
Few are our words before thee.
                                         For 'tis meet
That even the mightiest of our race should stand
Mute in thy presence, and with childlike awe,
Disrobed of self, adore his God through thee.