THERE are voices of God for the careless ear —
A low-breathed whisper when none is near
In the silent watch of the night's calm hours,
When the dews are at rest in the deep sealed flowers;
When the wings of the zephyr are folded up,
When the violet bendeth its azure cup;
'Tis a breath of reproval — a murmuring tone,
Like music remembered, or extacies gone.
'Tis a voice that sweeps through the evening sky,
When clouds o'er the pale moon are hurrying by;
While the fickle gusts, as they come and go,
Wake the forest boughs on the mountain's brow:
It speaks in the shadows that swiftly pass,
In the waves, that are roused from the lake's clear glass,
Where summer shores, in their verdant pride,
Were pictured but late in the stainless tide.
And that voice breaks out in the tempest's flight,
When the wild winds sweep in their fearful might;
When the lightnings go forth on the hills to play —
As they pass on their pinions of fire away;
While they fiercely smile through the dusky sky,
As the thunder-peals to their glance reply;
As the bolts leap out from the sombre cloud,
While the midnight whirlwinds sing wild and loud!
'Tis a voice which comes in the early morn,
When the matin hymns of the birds are born;
It steals from the fold of the painted cloud —
From the forest's draperies, sublime and proud;
Its tones are blent with the running stream,
As it sweeps along, like a changeful dream,
In its light and shade, through the chequered vale,
While the uplands are fanned by the viewless gale.
In the twilight hour, when the weary bird
On her nest is sleeping, that voice is heard;
While mist-robes are drawn o'er the green earth's breast,
And the sun hath gone down from the faded west;
In the hush of that silence — when winds are still,
And the light wakes no smile in the quivering rill;
Through the wonderful depths of the purple air,
O'er the landscape trembling — that voice is there!
There are whispers of God in the cataract's roar —
In the Sea's rude wail, on his sounding shore;
In the waves that melt on his azure isles,
Where the sunny south on their verdure smiles;
In the oceanward wind from the orange trees —
In the Sabean odors that load the breeze;
'Midst the incense that floats from Arabia's strand —
That tone is there with its whispers bland.
And it saith to the cold and the careless heart,
How long wilt thou turn from " the better part? "
I have called from the infinite depths of heaven,
I have called, but no answer to me was given;
From many a hallowed and glorious spot,
I have called by my Spirit — and ye would not!
Thou art far from the haven, and tempest toss'd —
Hear the cry of thy Pilot, or thou art lost!
A low-breathed whisper when none is near
In the silent watch of the night's calm hours,
When the dews are at rest in the deep sealed flowers;
When the wings of the zephyr are folded up,
When the violet bendeth its azure cup;
'Tis a breath of reproval — a murmuring tone,
Like music remembered, or extacies gone.
'Tis a voice that sweeps through the evening sky,
When clouds o'er the pale moon are hurrying by;
While the fickle gusts, as they come and go,
Wake the forest boughs on the mountain's brow:
It speaks in the shadows that swiftly pass,
In the waves, that are roused from the lake's clear glass,
Where summer shores, in their verdant pride,
Were pictured but late in the stainless tide.
And that voice breaks out in the tempest's flight,
When the wild winds sweep in their fearful might;
When the lightnings go forth on the hills to play —
As they pass on their pinions of fire away;
While they fiercely smile through the dusky sky,
As the thunder-peals to their glance reply;
As the bolts leap out from the sombre cloud,
While the midnight whirlwinds sing wild and loud!
'Tis a voice which comes in the early morn,
When the matin hymns of the birds are born;
It steals from the fold of the painted cloud —
From the forest's draperies, sublime and proud;
Its tones are blent with the running stream,
As it sweeps along, like a changeful dream,
In its light and shade, through the chequered vale,
While the uplands are fanned by the viewless gale.
In the twilight hour, when the weary bird
On her nest is sleeping, that voice is heard;
While mist-robes are drawn o'er the green earth's breast,
And the sun hath gone down from the faded west;
In the hush of that silence — when winds are still,
And the light wakes no smile in the quivering rill;
Through the wonderful depths of the purple air,
O'er the landscape trembling — that voice is there!
There are whispers of God in the cataract's roar —
In the Sea's rude wail, on his sounding shore;
In the waves that melt on his azure isles,
Where the sunny south on their verdure smiles;
In the oceanward wind from the orange trees —
In the Sabean odors that load the breeze;
'Midst the incense that floats from Arabia's strand —
That tone is there with its whispers bland.
And it saith to the cold and the careless heart,
How long wilt thou turn from " the better part? "
I have called from the infinite depths of heaven,
I have called, but no answer to me was given;
From many a hallowed and glorious spot,
I have called by my Spirit — and ye would not!
Thou art far from the haven, and tempest toss'd —
Hear the cry of thy Pilot, or thou art lost!