Classic Poem

Methinks the earth a book
Sealed up for ages,
Till Science deigned to look
Into its pages;
Searching for truths mistook
By ancient sages.

The volume sure was writ
With His own hand
Whose brow is ever knit
With thought unscanned,
And who with stars has lit
The Better Land.

No book hath clearer print,
None richer bound,—
All wisdom without stint,
A work profound,
Which gives for every hint
A reason sound,

And fills with pure desire
The soul unfed;
And e'en reveals entire
The primal dead,
Baptized in molten fire
At periods dread;

Footprints where birds have trod,
Burnt hills and dells
Once clad with mould and sod,
And ferns and shells,
And pines that joyed to nod
In sea-like swells;

And dark, unfathomed lakes,
Where far and wide,
'Mid falling fiery flakes,
Grim monsters died,
Ingulfed by dread earthquakes
Beneath the tide.

Ah! who that still aspires
Earth's lore to read,
Can find, in prophet sires,
All man doth need
To sate enlarged desires,
Or fix his creed?

He dwells in every flower,
In every place,
Who crowns with life each hour,
And gives it grace,
And bids us trace His power
Still face to face.