THE POET'S BOOKS. 287
To spread its mighty volumes out for ihee, And search thou there, on every fearful page, Jehovah's name.
Question the rough-leafed herb, That lines the simpler 's scrip, nor scorn to heed Such answer as its healing essence yields. Talk with the fire-fly, as it gilds the eve, And catch the murmur of the waving boughs, Where hides the slumbering nest.
List, when old night,
That dark-rob 'd queen, disbands the muffled stars, And boldly writeth on the vaulted sky Its Maker's awful name. When weary day, Casting her deeds into grey twilight's lap, Doth sleep, forgetful of the Judge, be there, A student of its annal, if perchance Its varying burden, fitted to thy harp, May breathe true wisdom.
Take thy choicest books From Nature's library, and be thy creed Such soul-entrancing poesy as makes Virtue more lovely, and inspires the hymn That seraphs set to music.
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