| |
| HAS thy foot ever trod that silent dell?— | |
| ’T is a place for the voiceless thought to swell, | |
| And the eloquent song to go up unspoken, | |
| Like the incense of flowers whose urns are broken; | |
| And the unveil’d heart may look in and see, | 5 |
| In that deep, strange silence, its motions free, | |
| And learn how the pure in spirit feel | |
| That unseen Presence to which they kneel. | |
| |
| No sound goes up from the quivering trees, | |
| When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze, | 10 |
| They wave in the zephyr, they bow to the blast, | |
| But they breathe not a word of the power that pass’d; | |
| And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream, | |
| With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream; | |
| And the breath that is bending the grass and the flowers | 15 |
| Moves o’er them as lightly as evening hours. | |
| |
| The merry bird lights down on that dell, | |
| And hushing his breath, lest the song should swell, | |
| Sits with folded wing, in the balmy shade, | |
| Like a musical thought in the soul unsaid; | 20 |
| And they of strong pinion and loftier flight | |
| Pass over that valley, like clouds in the night— | |
| They move not a wing in that solemn sky, | |
| But sail in a reverent silence by. | |
| |
| The deer in his flight has pass’d that way, | 25 |
| And felt the deep spell’s mysterious sway— | |
| He hears not the rush of the path he cleaves, | |
| Nor his bounding step on the trampled leaves. | |
| The hare goes up on that sunny hill— | |
| And the footsteps of morning are not more still. | 30 |
| And the wild, and the fierce, and the mighty are there— | |
| Unheard in the hush of that slumbering air. | |
| |
| The stream rolls down in that valley serene, | |
| Content in its beautiful flow to be seen; | |
| And its fresh, flowery banks, and its pebbly bed | 35 |
| Were never yet told of its fountain-head. | |
| And it still rushes on—but they ask not why; | |
| With its smile of light it is hurrying by; | |
| Still gliding or leaping, unwhisper’d, unsung, | |
| Like the flow of bright fancies it flashes along. | 40 |
| |
| The wind sweeps by, and the leaves are stirr’d, | |
| But never a whisper or sigh is heard; | |
| And when its strong rush laid low the oak, | |
| Not a murmur the eloquent stillness broke; | |
| And the gay young echoes, those mockers that lie | 45 |
| In the dark mountain sides, make no reply; | |
| But hush’d in their caves, they are listening still | |
| For the songs of that valley to burst o’er the hill. | |
| |
| I love society; I am o’erblest to hear | |
| The mingling voices of a world; mine ear | 50 |
| Drinks in their music with a spiritual taste; | |
| I love companionship on life’s gray waste, | |
| And might not live unheard;—yet that still vale— | |
| It had no fearful mystery in its tale— | |
| Its hush was grand, not awful—as if there | 55 |
| The voice of nature were a breathing prayer. | |
| ’T was like a holy temple, where the pure | |
| Might join in their hush’d worship, and be sure | |
| No sound of earth could come—a soul kept still, | |
| In faith’s unanswering meekness, for Heaven’s will— | 60 |
| Its eloquent thoughts sent upward and abroad, | |
| But all its deep, hush’d voices kept for God! | |
| |
