Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/270

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of everlasting power, I come Into thy presence, as an awe-struck child Before its teacher. Spread thy boundless page, And I will ponder o'er its characters, As erst the pleased disciple sought the lore Of Socrates or Plato. Yon old rock Hath heard thy voice for ages, and grown grey Beneath thy smitings, and thy wrathful tide Even now is thundering 'neath its caverned base. Methinks it trembleth at the stern rebuke— Is it not so! Speak gently, mighty sea! I would not know the terrors of thine ire That vex the gasping mariner, and bid The wrecking argosy to leave no trace Or bubble where it perished. Man's weak voice, Though wildly lifted in its proudest strength With all its compass—all its volumed sound, Is mockery to thee. Earth speaks of him— Her levelled mountains—and her cultured vales, Town, tower and temple, and triumphal arch, All speak of him, and moulder while they speak. But of whose architecture and design Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise To combat with the cloud, and when they fall? Of whose strong culture tell thy sunless plants And groves and gardens, which no mortal eye Hath seen and lived?