THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.”

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BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

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The stars were weary—all the summer night

They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls,

And danced along their wanton wanderings

To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,”

Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek

Returning from the midnight festival,

Their glances faded, lest they should behold

The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky.

The silver lute of the young morning star

Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn

With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,

Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own

The gentle pressure. As the waves of light

Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,

In golden ripples, faintly they revealed

Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist

Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,

And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests

Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud,

With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls,

Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair

Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour

Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still,

Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base,

Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek,

And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.

On Horeb’s mount a holy man of God

Stood forth to view the fragrant strife of morn,

Sunshine with shadow—rosy day with night —

And sleeping Death with glory-wakened Life.

A close dark mantle wrapped his agéd form,

His brow uncovered, though a snowy lock,

Stirred by the breeze of morning, waved above

Its frozen marble; while the gathered shades

Of many years hung, like a coronal

Of withered leaves, around it—and his eyes,

Strange, deep, and fathomless, gleamed forth beneath

Its deadly whiteness, like two liquid flames.

From the recesses of a marble tomb.

Mystic and subtle as some charmed perfume,

A sense of pleasure thrilled upon his heart,

As quick, faint pulses of the scented breeze

Brought balmy odors from the dewy flowers,

Waved the plumed monarchs of the forest proud,

And wafted on the islets of the cloud

Through liquid sapphire, where they seemed to float

Softly and dreamily, and full of love.

He bowed and worshiped—and “the Lord passed by.”

The sky was changed—and hoarsely, from afar,

A sound of waters, and of mingled winds,

Through forests raging, crept upon the ear;

And, driving o’er the azure fields of heaven,

Cloud after cloud came rolling swiftly on,

Black Pelion upon gloomy Ossa piled.

Like giant towers they gather, and from point

To point along their frowning battlements

Red signal-fires are flashing far and free.

Hark! the deep watchword of the rushing storm!

The thunder-spirit calls his squadrons dark,

Far through the trackless void of scowling space,

And lightning rends the cloudy canopy,

As prophet’s vision tears aside the veil

That shadows o’er the future, and beholds

Beyond unfolded naught but dim, and wild,

And fearful mystery. Then the sullen roar

Of elemental conflict crashing fell —

A mingled din of crushing thunderbolts,

And sadly moaning winds, and heavy drops

Of rain, as though the demons of the storm

Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.

’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled

The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels

Of burning levin—by the tempest led,

(As some great conqueror from battle won,)

The serried hosts of falling waters passed

Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;

And Nature shouted as the wing of peace

Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track

Of elemental war. “The Lord was not”

Amid the rushing armies of the storm,

Its fierceness was the shadow of his frown,

Deep-veiled, yet dark, and terribly sublime;

And, as upon its far retiring verge,

The glorious rainbow brightened, ’twas a dim

And faint reflection of His mercy’s smile!

Again the spirit of a fearful change

Came stealing o’er the blue and tranquil heaven —

A hollow, rushing murmur filled the air,

And the low sobbing of the rising wind

Grew deeper, till in howling gusts it whirled

Dark wreaths of earthy fragments to the sky,

As though the maddened gnomes were hurling death

Against the vapory armaments of air;

And lurid flames with blue and ghastly glare

Gleamed o’er the face of Nature till it blanched,

As though the warning of the last dread trump

Had smote her guilt upon a coward heart.

The earthquake rising from his burning lair,

Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,

Shook everlasting hills from out his path,

Like a roused lion flinging from his mane

The dewy drops of morning. At his tread

The pale earth trembled, and anon there came

A crushing down of rocky battlements,

Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,

On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell

Far down the dark, immeasurable void

Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips

Of fierce, insatiate hell. He tore away

The iron nerves from that strong mountain’s heart,

As though the destiny of a conqueror lay

Deep hid within it, and the hour was come

When he must march to seek it, in a last

And wild death-revel. As this passed away,

In racking throes, which might have seemed the strong

Convulsive shudder of dissolving worlds,

The earth moaned feebly, as a dying child

Will murmur faintly in its fever-dream —

Then darkness gathered round it, like the deep,

Black jaws of cold annihilation.

It came—it vanished—and “the Lord was not”

Throned high upon the earthquake’s blasting rage;

But, at the echo of His chariot wheels,

The iron land tossed like the ocean waves,

And mountains dashed aloft their crested heads

As surging billows flout a stormy sky.

The air was stagnant, cold, and dark, and dull,

Heavy as morn to aching senses, when

Some dreamer wakes to feel a load of care

Pressed back upon his memory, and hastes

To close his eyes, that he may cast it off,

And dream once more of happiness and hope.

Like molten lead along the sullen sky,

Gray clouds hung drooping, for the summer wind

Seemed frozen, and its restless wing was dead.

Strong, swift, and chainless as some maddening thought,

There came the spirit of a change, which seemed

To wave aloft the banner and the sword

Of a destroying angel—withering winds

Rose, winged with lightning, and the brazen sky

Was one red desert, peopled with a host

Of burning shadows, lurid shapes of hell,

That wildly mingled with the falling stars,

And whirled in flaming chaos up to heaven!

Clouds heated to a whiteness writhed and tossed

Along the horizon’s verge of liquid fire,

And, from their snowy foldings rent and torn,

Gushed forth a stream of meteors, like deep gouts

Of crimson blood from Beauty’s mangled bosom.

Bright glowed the valleys, and the eternal hills

Seemed towering to the brassy vault of heaven

In gorgeous pyramids of living flame —

A mighty holocaust, and offered high

On the red altars of a crumbling world

To some fierce god of elemental fire.

It flamed—it faded—but “the Lord was not”

Upon the burning pinions of its strength;

His glance, which withers dynasties and thrones —

His passing breath, where hangs the fate of kings

And mighty nations, kindled up the sky,

And lightened o’er a terror-stricken world.

Noontide poured down upon the sleeping earth

And dreaming waves a long and fervid kiss

Of panting passion, and the Orient’s heart

Glowed in its languid atmosphere of love.

The storm, the earthquake, and the flashing fire.

Had left it placid as the orbéd brow

Of slumbering Beauty—through the fragrant air

There came no sounding sweep of angel wings,

No frowning fury rushing on to tread

The wrathful wine-press of avenging God;

But the rich music of a “still, small voice,”

From the far arches of the vaulted sky

Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath

Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line

Of universal being, till it thrilled

A new creation into loving life,

Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere,

The universe of harmony was dumb,

For in the music of that “still small voice,”

Was blent the omnipresence of the Lord.

The prophet shrouded up his lofty brow

Deep in his mantle, and his soul grew still

With silent worship, as his thirsting heart

Drank the rich murmur of that mystic tone

Which told the mighty presence of his God!

The true existence of a gifted soul

Is like that prophet’s vision, and it seems

A dread reality, to which his trance

Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues

Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth

When the young soul exulting presses on

To chase the pleasures of its opening day.

Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope,

Wrought into beauty by the singing wind,

Which bears them on its wing so joyously;

While the glad revel of its morning song

Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven.

The strong day deepens, as the spirit speeds

Along the crowded thoroughfares of life,

But apprehension’s vague, dim, shadow flits

O’er thought’s bright beauty; strange and fitfully

Gray tints of doubt will mingle with the hues

Of rainbow light, with which it used to paint

The future’s glory—and the Right and Wrong

Will struggle fiercely in the wavering heart,

Like light and shadow ’mid the wreathing folds

Of cloudy columns driven by the storm.

It grovels with the herd of Mammon’s slaves,

And drops of poisoned anguish from the heart

Will start and thicken on the pallid brow.

Deep disappointment, like the serpent’s fang,

Strikes through the spirit sharply, and the cry

Of midnight whirlwinds shrieking on the wold

Is not so weird and fearful. Tempest-tossed,

The soul must wander on its weary way,

Till, from the caverns of its being, rent

By strong fatality, a first, great love

Bursts on its raptured vision, as of old

A mighty angel rolled away the stone

Which shrouded o’er the sepulchre of God,

And clothed in living glory, as a robe,

Came forth the Crucified! How soft at first

The voiceless breathing of that atmosphere —

How sweet the stillness where no breezes sigh

Save that of Love’s impassioned oracle!

Anon ’tis broken, and the future sobs

A low, sad warning of the storm to come.

’Tis Passion’s earthquake rising in its might,

To scatter thought, as gathered cloud on cloud,

It hangs around the pinnacles of mind,

Perchance deep-freighted with some glorious truth,

Which, could it melt away in genial showers,

Would bless and beautify a desert world.

As some strong column, God-erected, on

The mountain’s misty summit, the young heart

Sways to and fro between the Right and Wrong —

The first may triumph, or the last may win,

It matters not, wild Passion’s dreams is past,

The soul is stagnant—but it sleeps no more.

Cradled in heaven, but entombed in hell,

Then comes the torture of its aching void,

Silent, beneath the suffocating press

Of bitter, sullen agony it lies.

The spirit sickens with its loneliness —

And thirst of power dissolves the icy spell,

Which bound its pulses into leaden sleep;

Then mad Ambition withers down the wrecks

Of disappointed Passion, as the crash

Of thunder follows in the lightning’s path;

The myrtle-wreath, now trampled and despoiled,

Is dashed aside to grasp a laurel crown.

The meed of genius, and of victory!

The past becomes a broken altar-stone.

But from the ashes of its cold despair

The strong soul rises into glorious life,

Like a young Phœnix flaming into birth.

Sweet rainbow-tinted fancies have decayed,

But lofty thoughts like gorgeous banners wave

In triumph o’er the citadel of Mind —

Though tossed, perchance, upon a sigh which tells

Of ruined hope, and desolated love;

The eloquence of passion-parted lips

Has softly faded, like the rich perfume

Of burning incense—but a vaporous flame

Of proud defiance scathes the listening world.

Thus goaded on to action by the fire

That madly rages in a wasted heart,

It struggles on to win the dust of time,

To strew it o’er the amaranthine leaves

Of an immortal coronal; its fame

Flashes, a meteor through the changing sky

Of popular opinion, ever urged

“Onward—still onward”—by the iron hand

Of strong, resistless Destiny. The storm,

The rocking earthquake, and devouring fire,

Have done their work upon the heart and soul;

Have torn away the sweetest bloom of life

And flung it wantonly upon the world —

Corroding Care has shed its poison dew

O’er Pleasure, which is foam upon the wave —

And Shame’s red plague-spot flashes in the heart,

While Pride and Passion’s flaming lava-drops

Fall hissing through its purest depths, to change

Their sweets to bitter burning.

O’er the fount,

Erewhile so wild and troubled, sweeps a spell

And “peace, be still,” is in its music tone.

The “still, small voice,” which breathes of “love divine,”

Steals o’er the spirit like the singing rain

To blossoms by the summer lightning crushed.

Shrouded in beauty, flows the fountain calm.

In dewy light the feelings sparkle on,

For every wave of thought is full of prayer.

Within its holy sanctuary hushed,

So softly beats the bosom purified,

So sweet the slumber of a soul forgiven, —

While blended with its harmony of thought

That angel “voice” is sounding peacefully,

With waning life alone to pass away,

And fade into the melody of Heaven!

Memphis, 1850.

“L’Inconnue.”