214 AMELIA B. WELBY. [1830-40. Yet ! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, Wlien I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit en- fold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. THE PRESENCE OF GOD. O Thou, who fling'st so fair a robe Of clouds around the hills untrod — Those mountain-pillars of the globe, Whose peaks sustain thy throne, God! All glittering round the sunset skies, Their trembling folds are lightly furled, As if to shade from mortal eyes The glories of yon upper world; There, while the evening star upholds In one bright spot their purple folds, My spirit lifts its silent prayer. For Thou, the God of love, art there. The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, Upspringing freely from the sod, In whose soft looks we seem to meet, At every step. Thy smiles, O God ! The humblest soul their sweetness shares, They bloom in palace-hall, or cot — Give me, O Lord ! a heart like theirs, Contented with my lowly lot ! Within their pure, ambrosial bells. In odors sweet. Thy Spirit dwells ; Their breath may seem to scent the air — 'Tis Thine, O God! for Thou art there. List ! from' yon casement low and dim, What sounds are these, that fill the breeze ? It is the peasant's evening hymn Arrests the fisher on the seas — The old man leans his silver hairs Upon his light, suspended oar, Until those soit, delicious airs Have died, like ripples on the shore. Why do his eyes in softness roll ? What melts the manhood from his soul? His heart is filled with peace and prayer, For Thou, O God ! art with him there. The birds among the summer-blooms. Pour forth to Thee their strains of love. When, trembling on uplifted plumes. They leave the earth and soar above ; We hear their sweet, familiar airs, Where'er a sunny spot is found ; How lovely is a life like theirs, Diffusing sweetness all around ! From clime to clime, from pole to pole. Their sweetest anthems softly roll, Till, melting on the realms of air, Thy still, small voice seems whispering there. The stars, those floating isles of light. Round which the clouds unfurl their sails, Pure as a woman's robe of white That trembles round the form it vails, They touch the heart as with a spell. Yet, set the soaring fancy free. And O, how sweet the tastes they tell ! They tell of peace, of love, and Thee ! Each raging storm that wildly blows, Each balmy gale that lifts the rose, Sublunely grand, or softly fair, They speak of Thee, for Thou art there. The spirit, oft oppressed with doubt, May strive to cast Thee from its thought; But who can shut thy presence out, Thou mighty Guest that com'st rm- sought ? In spite of all our cold resolves, WJiate'er our thoughts, whate'er we be. Still, magnet-hke, the heart revolves, And points, all trembling, up to Thee.
