The dark and rugged mountain-steep, The sloping emerald glade; The beam-lit valley where vines may creep; The harebell low in the shade:
The towering hill; the shimering rill; The fields and forest trees— Oh, he is blind who cannot find Good company in these!
I have seen the harvest sun pour down Its rays on the rustling sheaf, Till gold flash'd out from the wheat-ear brown, And flame from the poppy's leaf:
I have heard the music the woods have made In deep and sullen roar, When the mighty winds of Winter play'd On branches grey and hoar:
I have seen the merry Spring steal nigh, And my soul has leap'd to meet The rainbow clouds that flitted on high, The daisy that kiss'd my feet:
I have watch'd the slowly-gathering gloom Of mournful Autumn throw Its pensive shade on the dying bloom, Like sorrow on beauty's brow:
And though I have garner'd little of light From Learning's glorious store, These, these have taught God's mercy and might; And who can teach me more?
My spirit has glow'd, the rapt, the blest; Flush'd with the fervent zeal That may gush from the eyes and burn in the breast; But the weak lips ne'er reveal.
The giant rock, the lowliest flower Can lead to Him above, And bid me worship the hand of power, Of mystery and love.
Does my heart grow proud? I need but turn To Nature, and confess A Maker's greatness—shrink and learn My own unworthiness.
