Classic Poem

Oh ! what art thou, mysterious power,
That lov'st to sit and brood,
At dawn of day and ev'ning grey,
In ev'ry solitude?
That wand'rest through the valleys lone,
And forests old and hoar,
Where ev'ry leaf and mossy stone
With worship's running o'er.

I've seen thee hanging o'er the steep
Which topples by the sea,
And heaving with the heaving deep
Thy bosom seem'd to be —
Till there did start from out thy heart
A sigh — oh, how profound!
While tree and stream, as in a dream,
Were list'ning all around.

And ever at the dawn of day,
Beside the mountain-rills,
Thou wand'rest like a hermit grey,
Communing with the hills;
Or far away in moorlands lone —
Waste places of Creation —
Thou sittest on some old grey stone,
And talk'st with Desolation.

And I have felt in deserts wild,
E'en at the noontide hour,
Among the rocks all rudely piled,
Thy presence and thy power;
And I have stood with mute surprise,
Yea, with a thrill of awe,
For watching me through stony eyes,
Thine awful face I saw.

Or seated on a crag sublime,
Beside yon mountain river,
I've heard thee questioning old Time,
That rusheth on forever.
I've seen thee look from yonder tower
Through loop-holes of decay,
Commenting upon human power
And glory pass'd away.

And I have listen'd to thee then
As if a spell had bound me,
For shadows of the mail-clad men
Were hov'ring all around me;
And in yon deep secluded glen,
Where Pity sits and raves,
I've seen thee bend as to a friend
Above the Martyrs' graves.

Or hanging by the water-fall,
'Mong shadows lengthening dim,
Or on the hills, I've heard thee call
To join thy evening hymn;
And on the Sabbath evening oft,
While stillness fill'd the air,
With upturn'd eyes, hands raised aloft,
Lo! thou wast kneeling there.

Or, seated in thy robes of white,
With an imperial crown,
From great Benlomond's tow'ring height
I've seen thee looking down,
As if in wonder, at our strife,
Our hurry, fret, and fume —
Ignoring love, the sun of life,
To stumble in the gloom.

When to yon mountain cavern hoar,
From earth's distractions fleeing,
There I have found thee pond'ring o'er
The mystery of being.
But whether in thy temples green,
Or caverns by the sea,
Great spirit, thou hast ever been
A mystery to me.

Thy presence ever came unsought,
At morn or midnight hour;
And unto me thou'st ever brought
A great uplifting power.
O spirit of majestic mien!
Amid the darkness dense,
Art thou interpreter between
The world of soul and sense?

Art thou the soul that link'st in one
This visible creation
With yonder spiritual sun
Of vast imagination?
I only know where thou art not,
That we are grov'lers low,
But where thou art there in the heart
Celestial virtues grow.