Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/255
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Jones Very.
The bird reposes on the yielding bough,
With breast unswollen by the tide of song,
So does my spirit wait thy presence now
To pour thy praise in quickening life along,
Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep,
While round the Unutter'd Word and Love their vigils keep.
With breast unswollen by the tide of song,
So does my spirit wait thy presence now
To pour thy praise in quickening life along,
Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep,
While round the Unutter'd Word and Love their vigils keep.
ENOCH.
I look'd to find a man who walk'd with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old;
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none, like David, turn'd a willing ear;
God walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart built temple open stood;
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.
Like the translated patriarch of old;
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none, like David, turn'd a willing ear;
God walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart built temple open stood;
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.
THE LIVING GOD.
There is no death with Thee! Each plant and tree
In living haste their stems push onward still;
The pointed blade, each rooted trunk we see,
In various movement all attest thy will.
The vine must die when its long race is run,
The tree must fall when it no more can rise;
The worm has at its root his task bugun,
And hour by hour his steady labour plies:
In living haste their stems push onward still;
The pointed blade, each rooted trunk we see,
In various movement all attest thy will.
The vine must die when its long race is run,
The tree must fall when it no more can rise;
The worm has at its root his task bugun,
And hour by hour his steady labour plies: