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82  LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

To each perennial flower, 
Old tenants of the spot,
The broad-leaf'd lily of the vale,
And the meek forget-me-not;
To every daisy's dappled brow,
To every violet blue,
Thanks! thanks! may each returning year
Your changeless bloom renew.

Praise to our Father-God, 
High praise, in solemn lay,
Alike for what his hand hath given,
And what it takes away:
And to some other loving heart
May all this beauty be 
The dear retreat, the Eden-home,
That it hath been to me.

NIAGARA.

FLOW on for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty.  Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless.  God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.  And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of Him
Eternally — bidding the lip of man
Keep silence — and upon thine altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise.

Earth fears to lift 
The insect-trump, that tells her trifling joys
Or fleeting triumphs 'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn. Proud Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood, and all his waves

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.  83

Retire abash'd.  For he hath need to sleep, 
Sometimes, like a spent labourer, calling home
His boisterous billows from their vexing play,
To a long, dreary calm: but thy strong tide
Faints not, nor e'er with failing heart forgets
Its everlasting lesson, night nor day
The morning stars, that hail'd creation's birth,
Heard thy hoarse anthem, mixing with their song
Jehovah's name; and the dissolving fires,
That wait the mandate of the day of doom
To wreck the earth, shall find it deep inscribed
Upon thy rocky scroll.

The lofty trees
That list thy teachings, scorn the lighter lore
Of the too fitful winds; while their young leaves
Gather fresh greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism.  Lo! yon birds,
How bold they venture near, dipping their wing
In all thy mist and foam.  Perchance 't is meet
For them to touch thy garment's hem, or stir
Thy diamond wreath, who sport upon the cloud,
Unblamed, or warble at the gate of heaven
Without reproof.  But, as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful with our erring lips to talk
Familiarily of thee.  Methinks, to trace
Thine awful features, with our pencil's point,
Were but to press on Sinai.

Thou dost speak
Alone of God, who pour'd thee as a drop
From his right hand,— bidding the soul that looks
Upon thy fearful majesty, be still,
Be humbly wrapp'd in its own nothingness,
And lose itself in Him.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 10:35:54