Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/122

118 Have found their shelter mid the heat of day; Perchance, in their mute worship pleasing Him Who careth for the meanest He hath made. I said he entereth to the sacred groves Where Nature in her beauty bends to God, And lo! their temple-arch is desecrate; Sinks the sweet hymn, the ancient ritual fades, And uptorn roots, and prostrate columns mark The invader's footsteps. Silent years roll on, His babes are men. His ant-heap dwelling grows Too narrow, for his hand hath gotten wealth. He builds a stately mansion, but it stands Unblessed by trees. He smote them recklessly, When their green arms were round him, as a guard Of tutelary deities, and feels Their maledictions, now the burning noon Maketh his spirit faint. With anxious care He casteth acorns in the earth, and woos Sunbeam and rain; he planteth the young shoot, And props it from the storm, but neither he, Nor yet his children's children, shall behold What he hath swept away. Methinks 't were well, Not as a spoiler or a thief, to roam O'er Nature's bosom, that sweet, gentle nurse Who loveth us, and spreads a sheltering couch When our brief task is o'er. On that green mound Affection's hand may set the willow-tree,