FOREST HYMN 203 



Oh, there is not lost 



One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, 

 After the flight of untold centuries, 

 The freshness of her fair beginning lies, 

 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 

 Of his arch-enemy Death; yea, seats himself 

 Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, 

 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 

 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 

 From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 



There have been holy men who hid themselves 



Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 



Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 



The generation born with them, nor seemed 



Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 



Around them; and there have been holy men 



Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 



But let me often to these solitudes 



Retire, and in Thy presence reassure 



My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 



The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink 



And tremble, and are still. 



O God! when Thou 



Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 

 The heavens with falling thunder-bolts, or fill, 

 With all the waters of the firmament, 

 The swift, dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 



