God is in the hues of heaven Fading from the sky and bay; God is in the shades of even, That chase the heavenly hues away. God is in the torrent falling, In the song of whip-poor-will, In the voice of shepherd calling, In the bleating on the hill, In the cloud the distance glooming, In the distant thunder’s roar, In the far-off ocean booming On his everlasting shore. God! Thou art all substance wreathing Into forms that suit thy will; God! Thou art through all things breathing One harmonious anthem still. REYNARD’S SOLILOQUY. (FROM THE SCHOOL OF QUEEN MAB.) Halloo! halloo! Wild woodland now! How the twinkling stars look down! And rocky and rude is the mountain’s brow, And dark is the forest’s frown. Ha! ha! the dens and brambled fens My wild eyes laugh to greet, And over the clifts and rocky rifts Right merrily dance my feet. Pure is the gale, and odors rise From the wild woodland hill; Wo-hoo! Wo-hoo! the dark owl cries, And shrilly the whip-poor-will; But the deep tone of the owlet’s moan Is a note of courage all free, And the whip-poor-will’s trill beneath the hill Gives music and motion to me. The farmers’ geese are very well fed, And fat and sleek are they;-- The blood-hound lies in his dreamy bed, So let me seek my prey. On drumming wings the partridge springs, As over the brakes I fly; But soon, like specks, the lily-white necks Will float before my eye. Ha! ha! I’ll pause upon this height; The village is all in view; The two-legged bodies are still to-night, And I’ll the game pursue. But hark!--I hear a sound, I fear-- ’Tis surely not yet day-- O! ’tis the sound of the opening hound-- Away! away! away! O’er bush, o’er brake, o’er rock I go, But nearer they come, I fear; Far off huzzas the two-legged foe-- Wow! wow!--the hounds are near. I’ll double my track, I’ll run me back, I’ll pother the beagles some-- Now for my den I’ll strain again, And gain my mountain home. A SUMMONS TO THE COUNTRY. Is it to sit within thy stately hall, Or tread the crowded street, thy chief delight? From all her heights and depths though Nature call Thee to her charms--though grove, and plain, and height, Warble for thee--though Ocean’s stormy might Thunder for thee--though the starred heavens sublime Shine out for thee--though peering orient bright O’er mountain wood, the sire of day and time Doth call for thee--and with retiring light Glance down his hues from their celestial clime To lure thee forth;--yet can all these excite In thy cold breast no chord’s responsive chime? Still wilt thou choose a prison-yard and cell?-- Well! God forgive thy choice, for thou dost penance well. Transcriber's Notes The following changes have been made to the text as printed: