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Oh, would I were as free to rise As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne,-- The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through earth and heaven; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee!

II.

LE CRI DE L'AME.

"Quand le souffle divin qui flotte sur le monde."

When the breath divine is flowing, Zephyr-like o'er all things going, And, as the touch of viewless fingers, Softly on my soul it lingers, Open to a breath the lightest, Conscious of a touch the slightest,-- As some calm, still lake, whereon Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan, And the glistening water-rings Circle round her moving wings When my upward gaze is turning Where the stars of heaven are burning Through the deep and dark abyss, Flowers of midnight's wilderness, Blowing with the evening's breath Sweetly in their Maker's path When the breaking day is flushing All the east, and light is gushing Upward through the horizon's haze, Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, Spreading, until all above Overflows with joy and love, And below, on earth's green bosom, All is changed to light and blossom:

When my waking fancies over Forms of brightness flit and hover Holy as the seraphs are, Who by Zion's fountains wear On their foreheads, white and broad, "Holiness unto the Lord!"

When, inspired with rapture high, It would seem a single sigh Could a world of love create; That my life could know no date, And my eager thoughts could fill Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still!

Then, O Father! Thou alone, From the shadow of Thy throne, To the sighing of my breast And its rapture answerest.

All my thoughts, which, upward winging, Bathe where Thy own light is springing,-- All my yearnings to be free Are at echoes answering Thee!

Seldom upon lips of mine, Father! rests that name of Thine; Deep within my inmost breast, In the secret place of mind, Like an awful presence shrined, Doth the dread idea rest Hushed and holy dwells it there, Prompter of the silent prayer, Lifting up my spirit's eye And its faint, but earnest cry, From its dark and cold abode, Unto Thee, my Guide and God!

1837

THE FAMILIST'S HYMN.

The Puritans of New England, even in their wilderness home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions which agitated the mother country after the downfall of Charles the First, and of the established Episcopacy. The Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were banished, on pain of death, from the Massachusetts Colony. One Samuel Gorton, a bold and eloquent declaimer, after preaching for a time in Boston against the doctrines of the Puritans, and declaring that their churches were mere human devices, and their sacrament and baptism an abomination, was driven out of the jurisdiction of the colony, and compelled to seek a residence among the savages. He gathered round him a considerable number of converts, who, like the primitive Christians, shared all things in common. His opinions, however, were so troublesome to the leading clergy of the colony, that they instigated an attack upon his "Family" by an armed force, which seized upon the principal men in it, and brought them into Massachusetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard labor in several towns (one only in each town), during the pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden, under severe penalties, to utter any of their religious sentiments, except to such ministers as might labor for their conversion. They were unquestionably sincere in their opinions, and, whatever may have been their errors, deserve to be ranked among those who have in all ages suffered for the freedom of conscience.

Father! to Thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restore Comfort to the broken heart!

Oh, the failing ones confirm With a holier strength of zeal!

Give Thou not the feeble worm Helpless to the spoiler's heel!

Father! for Thy holy sake We are spoiled and hunted thus; Joyful, for Thy truth we take Bonds and burthens unto us Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, Weary with our daily task, That Thy truth may never fall Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.

Round our fired and wasted homes Flits the forest-bird unscared, And at noon the wild beast comes Where our frugal meal was shared; For the song of praises there Shrieks the crow the livelong day; For the sound of evening prayer Howls the evil beast of prey!

Sweet the songs we loved to sing Underneath Thy holy sky; Words and tones that used to bring Tears of joy in every eye; Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair, Bowed, O God, alone to Thee.

As Thine early children, Lord, Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord, We, in love, each other fed.

Not with us the miser's hoard, Not with us his grasping hand; Equal round a common board, Drew our meek and brother band!

Safe our quiet Eden lay When the war-whoop stirred the land And the Indian turned away From our home his bloody hand.

Well that forest-ranger saw, That the burthen and the curse Of the white man's cruel law Rested also upon us.

Torn apart, and driven forth To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth Lift we still our grateful song!

Grateful, that in bonds we share In Thy love which maketh free; Joyful, that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!

Grateful! that where'er we toil,-- By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, Or by wild Neponset's tide,-- Still, in spirit, we are near, And our evening hymns, which rise Separate and discordant here, Meet and mingle in the skies!

Let the scoffer scorn and mock, Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock, For his wine-cup and his feast,-- Redden not Thy bolts in store Through the blackness of Thy skies?

For the sighing of the poor Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?

Worn and wasted, oh! how long Shall thy trodden poor complain?

In Thy name they bear the wrong, In Thy cause the bonds of pain!

Melt oppression's heart of steel, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel, That in us they mock at Thee!

In Thy time, O Lord of hosts, Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts, Smote apart the Red Sea's wave Lead us from this evil land, From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gathered band, Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!

1838.

EZEKIEL

Also, thou son of man, the children of thy people still are talking against thee by the walls and in the doors of the houses, and speak one to another, every one to his brother, saying, Come, I pray you, and hear what is the word that cometh forth from the Lord. And they come unto thee as the people cometh, and they sit before thee as my people, and they hear thy words, but they will not do them: for with their mouth they skew much love, but their heart goeth after their covetousness.

And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy words, but they do them not. And when this cometh to pass, (lo, it will come,) then shall they know that a prophet hath been among them.-- EZEKIEL, xxxiii. 30-33.

They hear Thee not, O God! nor see; Beneath Thy rod they mock at Thee; The princes of our ancient line Lie drunken with Assyrian wine; The priests around Thy altar speak The false words which their hearers seek; And hymns which Chaldea's wanton maids Have sung in Dura's idol-shades Are with the Levites' chant ascending, With Zion's holiest anthems blending!

On Israel's bleeding bosom set, The heathen heel is crushing yet; The towers upon our holy hill Echo Chaldean footsteps still.

Our wasted shrines,--who weeps for them?

Who mourneth for Jerusalem?

Who turneth from his gains away?

Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray?

Who, leaving feast and purpling cup, Takes Zion's lamentation up?

A sad and thoughtful youth, I went With Israel's early banishment; And where the sullen Chebar crept, The ritual of my fathers kept.

The water for the trench I drew, The firstling of the flock I slew, And, standing at the altar's side, I shared the Levites' lingering pride, That still, amidst her mocking foes, The smoke of Zion's offering rose.

In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame, The Spirit of the Highest came!

Before mine eyes a vision passed, A glory terrible and vast; With dreadful eyes of living things, And sounding sweep of angel wings, With circling light and sapphire throne, And flame-like form of One thereon, And voice of that dread Likeness sent Down from the crystal firmament!

The burden of a prophet's power Fell on me in that fearful hour; From off unutterable woes The curtain of the future rose; I saw far down the coming time The fiery chastisement of crime; With noise of mingling hosts, and jar Of falling towers and shouts of war, I saw the nations rise and fall, Like fire-gleams on my tent's white wall.

In dream and trance, I--saw the slain Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain.

I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre Swept over by the spoiler's fire; And heard the low, expiring moan Of Edom on his rocky throne; And, woe is me! the wild lament From Zion's desolation sent; And felt within my heart each blow Which laid her holy places low.

In bonds and sorrow, day by day, Before the pictured tile I lay; And there, as in a mirror, saw The coming of Assyria's war; Her swarthy lines of spearmen pass Like locusts through Bethhoron's grass; I saw them draw their stormy hem Of battle round Jerusalem; And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail!

Blend with the victor-trump of Baal!

Who trembled at my warning word?

Who owned the prophet of the Lord?

How mocked the rude, how scoffed the vile, How stung the Levites' scornful smile, As o'er my spirit, dark and slow, The shadow crept of Israel's woe As if the angel's mournful roll Had left its record on my soul, And traced in lines of darkness there The picture of its great despair!

Yet ever at the hour I feel My lips in prophecy unseal.

Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, And Salem's daughters haste to hear, On Chebar's waste and alien shore, The harp of Judah swept once more.

They listen, as in Babel's throng The Chaldeans to the dancer's song, Or wild sabbeka's nightly play,-- As careless and as vain as they.

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