FOREST HYMN 201 



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 worshiper to hold 

 Communion with his Maker. 



Here are seen 



No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks 

 Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 

 Encounter; no fantastic carvings show 

 The boast of our vain race to change the form 

 Of thy fair works. But Thou art here; Thou filPst 

 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

 That run along the summits 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 visits the strong roots 

 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

 Of all the good it does. 



Thou hast not left 

 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 



