The Harp at Nature’s Advent Strung

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 giv’n

By all things near and far;

The ocean look­eth up to Heav’n

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 its 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.