Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/8

4 Born of the trembling tear-drop, and the smile Of sun, or glimmering moon? Yet from a scene So awfully sublime, our senses shrink, And fain would shield them at the solemn base Of the tremendous precipice, and glean Such hallowed thoughts as blossom in its shade.

This is thy building, Architect Divine! Who heav'dst the pillars of the Universe. Up, without noise, the mighty fabric rose, And to the clamor of the unresting gulf Forever smiting on its ear of rock With an eternal question, answereth nought. Man calls his vassals forth, with toil and pain; Stone piled on stone, the pyramid ascends, Yet ere it reach its apex-point, he dies, Nor leaves a chiseled name upon his tomb. The vast cathedral grows, with deep-groined arch, And massy dome, slow reared, while race on race Fall like the ivy sere, that climbs its walls, The imperial palace towers, the triumph arch, And the tall fane that tells a hero's praise Uplift their crowns of fret-work haughtily. But lo! the Goth doth waste them, and his herds The Vandal pastures mid their fallen pride. But thou, from age to age, unchanged hast stood, Even like an altar to Jehovah's name, Silent, and steadfast, and immutable.