How still the plains of the waters be!

The tide is in his ecstasy; The tide is at his highest height: And it is night.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep?

And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn.

Sidney Lanier [1842-1881]

THE TROSACHS

There's not a nook within this solemn Pa.s.s But were an apt confessional for one Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning gra.s.s Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than gla.s.s Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth [1700-1850]

HYMN Before Sunrise, In The Vale Of Chamouni

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc!

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon ma.s.s: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision pa.s.sing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only pa.s.sive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!

O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!

Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered and the same for ever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- G.o.d! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, G.o.d!

G.o.d! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, G.o.d!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the elements!

Utter forth G.o.d, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, h.o.a.r Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-- Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise!

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread amba.s.sador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises G.o.d.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE PEAKS

In the night Gray, heavy clouds m.u.f.fled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward G.o.d alone.

"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.

Grant that we may run swiftly across the world To huddle in worship at Thy feet."

In the morning A noise of men at work came through the clear blue miles, And the little black cities were apparent.

"O Master, that knowest the meaning of raindrops, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.

Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."

In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.

"O Master, Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.

Thou only needest eternal patience; We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-- Humble, idle, futile peaks."

In the night Gray, heavy clouds m.u.f.fled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward G.o.d alone.

Stephen Crane [1871-1900]

KINCHINJUNGA Next To Everest Highest Of Mountains

O white priest of Eternity, around Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice To Brahma, in whose breath all lives and dies; O hierarch enrobed in timeless snows, First-born of Asia, whose maternal throes Seem changed now to a million human woes, Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound One sigh of all the mystery in thee found.

For in this world too much is overclear, Immortal ministrant to many lands, From whose ice altars flow, to fainting sands, Rivers that each libation poured expands.

Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire: Thy people fathom life, and find it dire; Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire To live again, though in Illusion's sphere, Behold concealed as grief is in a tear.

Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites, Though dark Tibet, that dread ascetic, falls, In strange austerity, whose trance appals,-- Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls.

Continue still thy silence high and sure, That something beyond fleeting may endure-- Something that shall forevermore allure Imagination on to mystic flights Wherein alone no wing of evil lights.

Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes Of lifted granite round with reachless snows.

Stand for eternity, while pilgrim rows Of all the nations envy thy repose.

Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled; Be that alone on earth which has not failed; Be that which never yet has yearned nor ailed, But since primeval Power upreared thy heights Has stood above all deaths and all delights.