LONG Swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds,
Start at the touch of vivifying beams.
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph
Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field
A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week,
Is naked Nature in her full attire.
On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured
Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
With strong reflection on the last, 't is dark
With full-grown foliage, shading all within.
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms;
And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers,
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth,
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
New notes to swell the music of the groves.
And soon the latest of the feather'd train
At evening twilight come; the lonely snipe,
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head;
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
Flying a while at random, uttering oft
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned
Against the brightness of the western sky,
One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound;
And, deep at first within the distant wood,
The whip-poor-will, her name her only song.
She, soon as children from the noisy sport
Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
Are by her voice diverted and held mute,
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
And when the twilight, deepened into night,
Calls them within, close to the house she comes,
And on its dark side, haply on the step
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen,
Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport.
Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve
All harmony, activity, and joy,
Is lovely Nature, as in her blessed prime.
The robin to the garden or green yard,
Close to the door, repairs to build again
Within her wonted tree; and at her work
Seems doubly busy for her past delay.
Along the surface of the winding stream,
Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,
Or round the borders of the spacious lawn
Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,
Easy, and light. One snatches from the ground
A downy feather, and then upward springs,
Followed by others, but oft drops it soon,
In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
When all at once dart at the falling prize.
The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown,
Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick
Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops
On the next tree, and on its highest limb,
Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits,
Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes
Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet,
All chanted in the fulness of delight,
The forest rings: where, far around enclosed
With bushy sides, and covered high above
With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks,
Like pillars rising to support a roof,
It seems a temple vast, the space within
Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody.
Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
The merry mocking-bird together links
In one continued song their different notes,
Adding new life and sweetness to them all.
Hid under shrubs, the squirrel that in fields
Frequents the stony wall and briery fence,
Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach
Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries
Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat
Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree;
But oft a moment after reappears,
First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far
Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze,
Singly and mutely, the contented herd;
And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep;
Regardless of the frolic lambs, that close
Beside them, and before their faces prone,
With many an antic leap and butting feint,
Try to provoke them to unite in sport
Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts,
When gathering in one company apart,
All vigor and delight away they run,
Straight to the utmost corner of the field,
The fence beside; then wheeling, disappear
In some small sandy pit, then rise to view;
Or crowd together up the heap of earth
Around some upturned root of fallen tree,
And on its top a trembling moment stand,
Then to the distant flock at once return.
Exhilarated by the general joy,
And the fair prospect of a fruitful year,
The peasant, with light heart and nimble step,
His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet.
With many a cheering word, his willing team,
For labor fresh, he hastens to the field
Ere morning lose its coolness; but at eve,
When loosened from the plough and homeward turned,
He follows slow and silent, stopping oft
To mark the daily growth of tender grain
And meadows of deep verdure, or to view
His scatter'd flock and herd, of their own will
Assembling for the night by various paths,
The old now freely sporting with the young,
Or laboring with uncouth attempts at sport.
closely connected together. One runs into the other, and the understanding of one may help us to understand the other.
There are a thousand allotments of Providence which are covered with darkness. We cannot comprehend them. But aided by experience and revelation, reason is sufficient to make us feel that they are kindly and wisely ordered. Reason is not sufficient to penetrate the future and see the wisdom and goodness of those allotments, but it is sufficient to bring us to the footstool of our Heavenly Father, and to make us say with unlimited trust and submission, "Thy will be done. Do thou my Father guide me." Thus reason prepares the way for faith, and faith binds the soul
to God in immortal bonds.
We see this in a good man when called on to discharge painful duties. He may not be able to look through to the end and see how all shall terminate, but reason aids him in ascertaining the duty, and when ascertained, lays a foundation for an undoubting faith that its performance must result in good. All becomes clear. The scoffs and scorn and persecution of a world are not able to shake his equal mind, or to turn him from the right. Reason has introduced him into the region of faith, and faith leans on God
and receives strength from Him.
We see this connexion between reason and faith in cases of affliction. A parent is called to part with a child. The bereavement is shrouded in gloom. The reason of the
parent cannot discern, it can hardly meditate on, the beneficent uses and purposes of this affliction. Yet reason has seen enough and learned enough, to give the conviction that all the doings of God are good. Reason cannot see the way itself clearly, but it can lead the parent to Him who does see the way clear, and can cause him to bow before that being in complete trust and submission. It can give origin to a faith so strong and entire, that the parent, even in the hour and anguish of bereavement, when his heart seems breaking within him, were the power given him to stay the flight of the departing spirit, even in that hour, he would not say, Come back, my child, come back, — but rather in the midst of his tears, does he say "The Lord gave, the Lord taketh away, blessed be his holy name."
Man's reason is but a feeble thing. Without revelation to aid it, this earth with the sky bending over it, were a dungeon with scarce a beam of light struggling in. And when in God's mercy these walls are rent, and the light of revelation streams in from the world beyond, all things are not revealed. We but know in part. We see through a glass darkly. A thousand anxious questions rise up to which we have no answer. But enough is revealed to reason to lay the broad foundation of faith.
There is a case which furnishes a good illustration of this whole subject, and in which men are constantly and habitually acting upon and acting out the principles that have been stated.
Night comes down over a ship at sea, and a passenger lingers hour after hour alone on the deck. The waters plunge and welter, and glide away beneath the keel. Above, the sails tower up in the darkness, almost to the sky, and their shadow falls as it were a burden on the deck below. In the clouded night no star is to be seen, and as the ship changes her course, the passenger knows not which way is east or west, or north or south. what sunken rocks may be on her course course is or where they are, he knows not.
What islands,
or what that
All around,
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