WHERE is Thy favour’d haunt, eternal Voice,
The region of
Thy choice,
Where, undisturb’d by sin and earth, the soul
Owns Thy entire
control? —
‘Tis on the mountain’s summit dark and high,
When storms
are hurrying by:
‘Tis ‘mid the strong foundations of the earth,
Where torrents
have their birth.
No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,
Mar the full
burst of prayer;
Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,
And round us
and beneath
Are heard her sacred tones; the fitful sweep
Of winds across
the steep,
Through wither’d bents—romantic note and clear,
Meet for a hermit’s
ear,—
The wheeling kite’s wild solitary cry,
And scarcely
heard so high,
The dashing waters when the air is still
From many a
torrent rill
That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,
Track’d by the
blue mist well:
Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart
For Thought
to do her part.
‘Tis then we hear the voice of GOD within,
Pleading with
care and sin:
“Child of My love! how have I wearied thee?
“Why wilt thou
err from Me?
“Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves,
“Parted the
drowning waves,
“And set My saints before thee in the way,
“Lest thou shouldst
faint or stray ?
“What! was the promise made to thee alone?
“Art thou th’
excepted one?
“An heir of glory without grief or pain?
“O vision false
and vain!
“There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow;
“It fits thy
stature now:
“Who scornful pass it with averted eye,
“Twill crush
them by-and-by.
“Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure
“Of thine eternal
treasure;
“The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought,
“The world for
thee was bought,
“And as this landscape broad—earth, sea, and sky,—
“All centers
in thine eye,
“So all God does, if rightly understood,
“Shall work
thy final good.”
