- Well does thine aspect usher in this Day; As aptly suits therewith that timid pace, That bind thee to the path which God ordains Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass away! Their utter stillness, and the silent grace Of etherial summits white with snow, yon (Whose tranquil pomp, and spotless purity, Report of storms gone by To us who tread below) Do with the service of this Day accord. Thou, who upon yon snow-clad Heights hast poured And for thy bounty wert not unadored By pious men of old; Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail ! Bright be thy course to day, let not this promise fail! II. 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, All nature seems to hear me while I speak, By feelings urged, that do not vainly seek Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes That stream in blithe succession from the throats Of birds in leafy bower, Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. There is a radiant but a short-lived flame, But he who fixed immoveably the frame Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong, A solid refuge for distress, The towers of righteousness; He knows that from a holier altar came The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice; Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise The current of this matin song; That deeper far it lies Than aught dependant on the fickle skies. III. Have we not conquered?— By the vengeful sword? Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; That curbed the baser passions, and left free Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads He with enraptured voice will tell Shall shew her clothed with strength and skill, Firm as a rock in stationary fight; In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam; IV. And thus is missed the sole true glory At which they only shall arrive Who through the abyss of weakness dive. For that Almighty God to whom we owe, Say not that we have vanquished - but that we survive. V. How dreadful the dominion of the impure! Why should the song be tardy to proclaim That less than power unbounded could not tame That Soul of Evil-which, from Hell let loose, To Heaven, who never saw may heave a sigh; But the foundation of our nature shakes, And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, Are but the avowed attire Of warfare waged with desperate mind The citadels of truth; While the old forest of civility Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree' VI. A crouching purpose a distracted will |