Great Shepherd of the countless flocks of stars, Which range the azure province of the sky, Who marked the course for Jupiter and Mars, Nor leads the comet from its path awry; Though flaming constellations at Thy call Pass into being, or created, fall; Thou, who hast caused the firmament to be, In humbler pathways, Father, lead Thou me. Thou, who hast framed the eagle's wing to soar Above the verdant prospects of the plain; Whose law hath shaped the pebbles on the shore, The stately forests and the bearded grain; Whose hand hath formed the silvery satellite To shed her tender moonbeams o'er the night; Thou who hast placed the islands in the sea, With that same Wisdom, Father, lead Thou me. THE RUINED CABIN There's a pathos in the solemn desolation Of the mountain cabin sinking in decay, With its threshold overgrown with vegetation, With its door unhinged and mouldering away. There's a weird and most disconsolate expression In the sashless windows with their vacant stare, As in mute appeal, or taciturn confession Of a wild and inconsolable despair. With its ridgepole bent and broken in the centre, From its roof of dirt and weight of winter snows; Where the only voice to greet you as you enter Is the wind which down the crumbling fireplace blows; Where the chipmunk chatters in loquacious wonder, As unwonted steps invade his solitude; Where the mountain rat secretes his varied plunder In the chimney corners, primitive and rude. Where the spider spins his web in grim seclusion, To entrap the fly and vacillating moth; From the rotten floor, in poisonous profusion Spring the toadstools, with their foul and fungous growth. Void of symmetry and semblance of equation, Through the chinkless cracks, the silvery moon and stars And the sun, at each matutinal invasion, Shine as through a dismal dungeon's grated bars. But no predatory hand in wanton malice Hath in vandal hour this dereliction wrought, But the hand which crumbles pyramid and palace, The hand of Time with rust and ruin fraught; Thus the proud or unpretentious habitation Shall succumb to age and melancholy mould; All are subject to the same disintegration, For the occupant and house alike grow old. AN IDYLL I love to sit by the waterfall, And list to its laughing story, As it fearlessly leaps o'er the rocky wall, From the mountain peaks stern and hoary; Or watch the spray as the colors play, When the glorious sunlight kisses, And tints confuse into rainbow hues To embellish the wild abysses. I love the rose and the columbine, Whose delicate beauty pleases; I love the breath of the fragrant pine, As it floats on the morning breezes;