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THE FOREST SANCTUARY.


VI.

A blighted name!—I hear the winds of morn—
Their sounds are not of this!—I hear the shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver:
Their sounds are not of this!—the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river!
What part hath mortal name, where God alone

Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?


VII.

Is it not much that I may worship Him,
With nought my spirit's breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts?—Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice
From man's?—I will rejoice!—my soaring soul
Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day,

And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way!
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