Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 41 1834.pdf/14



Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, Thy swell, thou Deep! when eve calls home the bird, And stills the wood; when summer tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil; And peasant-steps are hastening to repose; And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close, To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then, midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night 'Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone Speaks to our being of the Eternal One Who girds tired Nature with unslumbering might!