THE MYSTERY OF NATURE.

The works of God are fair for naught, Unless our eyes, in seeing, See hidden in the thing the thought That animates its being. The outward form is not the whole, But every part is moulded To image forth an inward soul That dimly is unfolded. The shadow, pictured in the lake By every tree that trembles, Is cast for more than just the sake Of that which it resembles. The dew falls nightly, not alone Because the meadows need it, But on an errand of its own To human souls that heed it. The stars are lighted in the skies Not merely for their shining, But, like the looks of loving eyes, Have meanings worth divining. The waves that moan along the shore, The winds that sigh in blowing, Are sent to teach a mystic lore Which men are wise in knowing. The clouds around the mountain-peak, The rivers in their winding, Have secrets which, to all who seek, Are precious in the finding. Thus Nature dwells within our reach, But, though we stand so near her, We still interpret half her speech With ears too dull to hear her. Whoever, at the coarsest sound, Still listens for the finest, Shall hear the noisy world go round To music the divinest. Whoever yearns to see aright Because his heart is tender, Shall catch a glimpse of heavenly light In every earthly splendor. So, since the universe began, And till it shall be ended, The soul of Nature, soul of Man, And soul of God are blended!