Poems (Osgood)/A Remonstrance

by Frances Sargent Osgood

A REMONSTRANCE.

written at the catskill moutain house.

What, here! where the soul feels an angel's elation,
 Where the balm of the breeze is worth all the world's wealth!
Oh ! profane not the place by so low a libation,
 While pure from the rock springs the fountain of health!

What, here! where the wood-bird its warble subduing,
 Keeps holy our Sabbath with music and love,
And Earth, her wild blossoms forever renewing,
 Sends up, in their perfume, her praises above!

Where the skies seem to bend, in their luminous beauty,
 So loving and low o'er the green mountain-sod,
That the spirit, attuned to devotion and duty,
 Sees Nature embracing her Father and God!

No temple can match, with a glory so solemn,
 The forest-cathedral that rises around;
The pine's stately shaft, for the fair marble column,
 All vein'd with the sunlight, and gracefully crown'd;

Its dome—the unlimited arch, glowing o'er us;
 Its censer—yon budding spray, swung by the breeze;
Its music—the hymn of the fountain before us;
 Its light—Heaven's smile—stealing soft through the trees:

And oh! the bright treasures around and below us,
 The buds of the wild mountain-laurel, behold!
So perfect, so gem-like! where, where will you show us
 A richer mosaic in temple of old?

Profane not the place by so base a libation!
 Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare!
Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation!
 Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.