The clouds have their own language unto me
They have told many a tale in by-gone days,
At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie
Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays
With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass,
And leave their storied circles where they pass.
So, even so, to me the embracing clouds,
With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here;
And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds
The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear,
And sunny brightness of yon arching sky,
They have their language and their melody.
Have you not felt it when the dropping rain
From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth
With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when
The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth
In misty radiance, until cloud and spot
Were blended in one brightness? Can you not
Look out and love when the departing sun
Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical
In his last splendour, and reflects upon
Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall
Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams
Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"
Or giving back those tints indefinite,
Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch
Whereon the angel-spirits of the light
Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march,
When sank the whelming waters, and again
Left the green islands to the sons of men?
Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw
Its growing shadow on the sinking tide,
How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue,
As its new lustre told that wrath had died,
Till the blue waves within their limits curled,
And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.
Gaze yet again, and you may see on high
The opposing hosts that mutter as they form
Their stern battalions, ere the artillery
Bids the destroying angel guide its storm;
If you have heard on battle's eve the low
Defiance quickly uttered to the foe,
When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow
And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast
With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow,
Pulsations which perchance may be their last,
Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud;
If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.
How from the bosom of its blackness springs
The cleaving lightning kindling on its way,
Flinging such blinding glory from its wings,
That he who looks grows drunk with its array
Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim,
And dazzling darkness overshadows him.
Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known
The wondrous workings of thy firmament,
Thine untold majesty, around whose throne
They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent
In light or darkness on their destined path,
Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.
Then here, in this thy lower temple, here
We kneel to thee in worship; what to these
Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear
Are painted domes or priestly palaces;
On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere,
We call on thee to commune and to bless,
And see in holy fancy each pure sigh
Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.