.

.
He ceased: just then the ocean seemed To lift a half-faced moon in sight; And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed, From crest to crest, a line of light, Such as of old, with solemn awe, The fishers by Gennesaret saw, When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God, Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod.
Silently for a space each eye Upon that sudden glory turned Cool from the land the breeze blew by, The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned Its waves to foam; on either hand Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand; With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree, The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea.
The lady rose to leave.

"One song, Or hymn," they urged, "before we part." And she, with lips to which belong Sweet intuitions of all art, Gave to the winds of night a strain Which they who heard would hear again; And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.
THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.
The harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play; The song the stars of morning sung Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven, And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee, Their white locks bowing to the sand, The priesthood of the sea' They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.
The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain,-- The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man.
.

.

.