'Twas in a lone sequestered dell, And on a summer's eve; The sun's last glances ling'ring fell, As loath the spot to leave: For never sun more blithely rose To light a scene more fair— Day never had so sweet a close, Or night a charm so rare. And I have climbed the rocky steep That cuts the vale in twain, And gaze adown the lonely sweep That seeks the vale again. I gaze on many a stately dome Of high imperious name, On many a low and humble home Unglorified by fame: But all are wrapt in deep repose, And not a sound is there To tell how swift the River flows Between the banks of Care. Unmarked, the stream of life glides on To that Eternal Sea, Where earthly sun hath never shone, Nor aught of earth can be. And this, to me, is as a spell That binds me to the night— That bathes each wild untrodden dell In waves of mystic light. There are who say this wondrous world Is but the work of chance; That earth, like some huge scroll, unfurled, And wrought its own advance; That senseless atoms blindly grew Into a world of light; That creatures no Creator knew— That death's eternal night! O Man, with aspirations high, Is this the end you crave? Oh Man, with soul that cannot die, And perish in the grave— Are all the wonders prophets told But wild delusive dreams? And can it be that human mould Is but the clay it seems? Shall love and virtue live on earth, And with the earth decay? Shall faith, and hope, and stainless worth, Pass like a dream away? Come forth, thou false and subtle sage! Creation read aright! Cast off the gathering mists of age, And clear thy clouded sight! Throw down, throw down the guilty pen— Break off the stubborn mask: The creed thou dar'st assert to men, Its truth of Nature ask! At morn, at noon, or sacred eve, On land or on the sea, The lightest sound thy step may leave Shall breathe "Eternity!" Come tread with me this dizzy height, And, through this waste of air, Gaze out upon the forms of night— What is thine answer there? The moonlit fields of waving corn, That ripening harvests fill— The bubbling springs where lakes are born, To man subservient still— All speak of His unbounded love Who caused those streams to flow, Who fed those fields from founts above, And made the harvest grow. And wheresoe'er the broad moon's rays In matchless beauty fall, They mirror forth to thoughtful gaze The Hand that fashioned all. There's not a plant upon the earth, There's not a tree nor flower, But bears the stamp of heavenly birth, The proof of heavenly power. The very leaf on which you tread Was wrought with wondrous hand,— A fragment of a volume dread That speaks to every land: A book unchanged from age to age— The same since time began: For Nature is a living page That preaches God to man!

Charles Wilton.