Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. Bryant William Cullen

      The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned

      To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

      And spread the roof above them – ere he framed

      The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

      The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

      Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,

      And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

      And supplication. For his simple heart

      Might not resist the sacred influences

      Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

      And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

      Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound

      Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

      All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed

      His spirit with the thought of boundless power

      And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

      Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect

      God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

      Only among the crowd, and under roofs

      That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

      Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

      Offer one hymn – thrice happy, if it find

      Acceptance in His ear.

      Father, thy hand

      Hath reared these venerable columns, thou

      Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

      Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

      All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,

      Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,

      And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow

      Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died

      Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,

      As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,

      Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold

      Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,

      These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride

      Report not. No fantastic carvings show

      The boast of our vain race to change the form

      Of thy fair works. But thou art here – thou fill'st

      The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

      That run along the summit of these trees

      In music; thou art in the cooler breath

      That from the inmost darkness of the place

      Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,

      The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.

      Here is continual worship; – Nature, here,

      In the tranquillity that thou dost love,

      Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,

      From perch to perch, the solitary bird

      Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,

      Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

      Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

      Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

      Thyself without a witness, in the shades,

      Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace

      Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak —

      By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

      Almost annihilated – not a prince,

      In all that proud old world beyond the deep,

      E'er wore his crown as loftily as he

      Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

      Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root

      Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

      Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,

      With scented breath and look so like a smile,

      Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

      An emanation of the indwelling Life,

      A visible token of the upholding Love,

      That are the soul of this great universe.