Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/76

 60 MICAH P. FLINT. [1820-30. And aged matrons, and the young and fair- Hair'd maidens, with their eyes of light, and looks That told the sweet day-dreams of youth and hope. There were the young divines, severely plain In dress, and look of sanctity ; and there Old pilgrims of the cross, whose wander- ing feet, For three-score years, had borne to cities full. To crowded populous plains, and to the few, That met and worship'd in the wilderness. The Gospel's peaceful mission; who had preach'd From the broad Lawrence and his nursing lakes, To streams that ripple in the southern breeze ; And still the burden of their theme, to laud The power of Him who died upon the tree. Such was the crowd, that from their dis- tant homes Had met, and peopled that green solitude. The shades of evening slowly gather'd round. And deepen'd into gloom, until at length Their bright and cheerful fires were kin- dled up. And they in many a scatter'd group were seen. Some visiting around from tent to tent ; Some meeting in the midst with inter- change Of friendly questionings and Avords of love. And greetings apostolic. And there were That walk'd apart, as though wrapt up in deep And solitary meditations. They, Perchance, dwelt on the coming rites, and girt Them for the sanctuaiy's services. Meanwhile the mountains with their tow'r- ing peaks, Stood forth, their blackening masses pic- tur'd on The sky, as from behind their summits ro-e The full-orb'd moon, and far o'er hills and vales Her pale and melancholy radiance cast. Her slanting rays glanc'd thi-ough the open- ing trees, And here and there, at intervals between Their branches, some bright star was seen, as 'twere A living spirit, looking forth from its Blue resting place. But the dim light of moon And stars shone feebly through that for- est's gloom, Nor lighted up its somber aisles, obscure And dun, save where a thousand torches from Its giant trunks suspended, shed around Their fiery brilliance, and display'd its broad And overhanging arches, and its huge And ivy-wreathed columns, till it seem'd A glorious temple, worthy of a God. At length the hour of evening worship came ; And on their rustic seats, fresh cleft, and hewn From the huge poplars, and in many a range Of circling rows dispos'd, in quiet sat The expectant multitude. Oh, 'twas a scene ! The silent thousands, that were list'ning there, 'Midst the gray columns of that ancient wood. Its dark green roof, the rows of whitening tents. That circled in the distance, and the clear And sparkling waters of the mountain- stream. In torch-light gleaming, as it dauc'd along ; And, more than all, the rustling leaver, that caught