Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/265

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Henry Ware, Jr.
Stars, crowded, throng'd, in regions so remote,That their swift beams—the swiftest things that be—Have travell'd centuries on their flight to earth.Earth, sun, and nearer constellations! whatAre ye amid this infinite extentAnd multitude of God's most infinite works! And these are suns! vast, central, living fires,Lords of dependant systems, kings of worldsThat wait as satellites upon their power,And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul,And meditate the wonder! Countless sunsBlaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds!Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice,And drink the bliss of being from the fountOf all-pervading Love. What mind can know,What tongue can utter, all their multitudes!Thus numberless in numberless abodes!Known but to thee, bless'd Father! Thine they are,Thy children, and thy care; and none o'erlook'dOf thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwellsUpon the humblest globe, which wheels its courseAmid the giant glories of the sky,Like the mean mote that dances in the beamAmong the mirror'd lamps, which flingTheir wasteful splendour from the palace wall,None, none escape the kindness of thy care;All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing,Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. Tell me, ye splendid orbs! as from your throneYe mark the rolling provinces that ownYour sway, what beings fill those bright abodes?How form'd, how gifted! what their powers, their state,Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bearThe stamp of human nature? Or has GodPeopled those purer realms with lovelier formsAnd more celestial minds? Does InnocenceStill wear her native and untainted bloom?Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad,
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