Poems (Baldwyn)/The Grove
THE GROVE.
"Here poesy might awake her heaven-taught lyre,And look through nature with creative fire;Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;And disappointment in these lonely bounds,Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds.Here heart-struck grief might heavenward stretch her scan,And injur'd worth forget and pardon man."Burns.
Sweet grove, once more beneath thy quiet shadesI enter. Ah, I visit thee alone.Thou art enshrin'd as sacred in my mind,Thou temple of past joy;—sweet hours of rest,When far escap'd from every crowding careI here retired. Let me forget them now.Oh, foliage fair!How deep thy shadows, and how bright the boughsThat topmost wave in the soft sunny air!How smooth the turf where wav'ring sunlight comesSmiling so sweetly! Thou art all unchang'd.Thou art the same, sweet grove, as in those hoursWhen in your stillness I first found repose!Oh, gentle peace, descend! Far from my mind,Ye clouds, that o'er the light of memoryGather in darkness! Here I have been blest,And, 'mid these scenes of nature that still smile As changeless as at first, I would forget Friendship's less faithful promise. Let me turn Mine eyes to all the glories that are spread So richly in the distance. Farther still! Rest on the mountains, my sad gaze, and view The grandeur of the hay that flows afar. And farther still! my soul, look up, and see How from the height of heaven the Lord looks down And smiles on his creation: thou wilt then Cease to muse sadly on life's fickle scene, And, borne away on contemplation's wing, Feel all thy powers renew'd. Oh, Heav'nly Pow'r who rules o'er nature's works And spreads a glorious lustre o'er them all, Before whose throne the countless angels fall, And worlds on worlds adoring e'er depend. Shall I, a fragile being, tread the earth, Reap thy rich blessings, and call forth my song? (Ah, thus while list'ning to the richer strains That nature breathes, imagining the praise Of worlds on high,—it sinks and dies away.) Shall I speak, move, or raise mine eye to heaven Without a pray'r to Thee? Make new my heart; Detach my soul from care. Save me, O Lord, From ev'ry snare of pride, of human trust; And my freed spirit, blended with my Lord's, Which dwells in faithful hearts, shall sing thy praise, Nor fear to call thee 'Father.' Softly roll The shadows o'er the landscape; bright the sun Shines in the smiling heavens; gently breathe The sighing winds; and flowers glance upward bright Fair, fair is earth! and all around is peace. Hark! hear that song that bursts upon the ear! How sweet this woodland music! Where the waves Roll their bright waters to the circling shore, Soft sounds ascend. Ah, who has given us these? Who spreads such beauty round us, and recalls, By all these tokens of his power and love, Our wand'ring hearts to heaven? Shall we give Our little span of life to things that fade, That ne'er repay our labour? All is ours! (And we, O Lord, are thine!)—the world above And all the beauties of the world below. The poor and rich alike can feast on all, Taste all the sweetness of the summer air, And raise with joy the hymn of grateful praise. Oh, that each heart were tun'd to sing thy praise, And ev'ry mind prepar'd to own thy pow'r; Detach'd from all vain, coveteous desires, Would learn to gaze upon thy works, O God, And feel that thou art here! Thus, thus inspir'd, Sin, care, and sorrow flee, and, as those clouds That roll'd their shades but now, leave no dark trace While brightly shines the sun of light and joy. But hush! Sweet grove, beneath your spreading shade And soft descending branches, I retir'd To seek forgetfulness of all the world, And find beneath your bright, yet solemn screen, A spot to weep o'er sorrow:—I was led By gentle thoughts infus'd by solitude, So lovely, rich, and fair, to turn and view The glories spread around me, and recall% The Lord who made them, and I felt my want Of his sustaining favour: now my heart, Refresh'd and strengthen'd, and with gentler thoughts Of those it turn'd from, breathes a prayer sincere; And as I view the mercies richly given For man's true happiness,—the boundless store Of beauty spread around for all who seek Their pleasure in God's works,[1]—my spirit bows, And, while it breathes its gratitude to heaven, Humbly recalls its murm'rings. Farewell, Sweet scenes of peace and beauty! When the breeze Sweeps like the whisperings of echoing song Among these branches, it will speak to me, When here I strays the blessedness of peace. Alburgh, Vt.
- ↑ "The works of the Lord are great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein." Psalms cxi, 2.