Virginia Free Press & Farmers' Repository

POETICAL.

WARNINGS.

"I have called but ye refused: I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded."

There's a voice of God for the careless ear—
A low breathed whisper when none is near.—
In the silent watch of the Night's calm hours.
When the dews are at rest in the deep-soaled flowers:
when the wings of the zephyr are folded up.
When the violet bendeth its azure cup:
'Tis breath of reproof—a murmuring tone
Like music remembered, or ecstasies gone
'Tis a voice that sweeps through the Evening's sky,
When the clouds o'er the pale moon are hurrying by,
While the fickle gusts, as they come and go,
Wake the forest-boughs, on the mountain's brow:
It speaks in the shadows that swiftly pass;
In the waves, that are roused from the lake's clear glass,
Where the summer shores, in their verdant pride,
Were pictured but late in the stainless tide.
And that voice breaks out in the Tempest's flight.
When the wild winds sweep in their fearful might—
When the lightnings go forth on the hills to play,
—As they pass on their pinions of fire, away:
While they fiercely smile through the dusky sky,
As tho' thunder-peals to their glance reply:
As the bolts leap out from the sombre cloud.
While the midnight whirlwinds sing wild and loud!
'Tis a voice which comes in the early morn,
When the matin hymn of the birds are born,
It steals from the fold of the painted cloud, —
From the forest draperies, sublime and proud:
Its tones are blent with the running stream,
As it sweeps along like a changeful dream,
In its light and shade through the chequered vale,
While the uplands are fanned by the viewless gale.
In the twilight hour, when the weary bird
On its nest is sleeping, that voice is heard,
While the mist-robes are drawn o'er the green earth's breast,
And the sun hath gone down from the faded west,
In the hush of that silence,—when winds are still,
And the light wakes no smile in the babbling rill:——
Thro' the wonderful depths of the purple air,
O'er the landscape trembling—that voice is there!
There are whispers of God in the Cataract's roar—
In the sea's rude wail, on its sounding shore;
In the waves that melt on her azure isles,
Where the sunny South on their verdure smiles,
In the Ocean-ward wind from the orange trees,
In the Sabæan odours that load the breeze:
Mid the incense that floats from Arabia's strand,
That tone is there with its whispers bland!
And it saith to the cold and the restless heart,
How long wilt thou turn from "the better part?"
I have called from the infinite depths of heaven—
I have called,—but no answer to me was given;
From many a hallowed and glorious spot,
I have called, by my Spirit—and ye regard not!
Thou art far from the haven, and tempest-tossed—
Hear the cry of thy Pilot, or thou art lost!

[Columbian Star.]