Chapter XII. HYMNS OF CREATION. "Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power; for Thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created." ONCE joined a party for a day's pleasure trip in the west of England, says an old rambler; "our plan was to get to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood, and there for a time take our fill of joy from the grandeur and beauty of the scenes around and beneath us. Alas, for human pleasures! The morning opened with rain, and we were seemingly doomed to disappointment. At length, encouraged by some weather-wise folks, we resolved to accomplish our purpose, even at the risk of wet jackets by the way. We climbed the steeps in spite of wind and rain, and came by and by, on the highest peak, to some steps leading to the door of an old tower, which from time immemorial had withstood the rush of years and storms. As we mounted these steps, we found, to our wonderment and delight, that on looking out, our eyes glanced along the upper surface of the clouds; and when we had fairly reached the roof of the old tower, there was nothing of our native earth to be seen but the few square feet of stone work on which we stood. Beneath us was an ocean of clouds; above us were the bright blue heavens. The sun had gone down just to the horizon, where the clear sky touched the cloudbillows. The faint-looking crescent of the new moon was peeping on us too from above the offing line of the cloudy deep. We could hear the carol of a lark, but otherwise the silence of nature was profound and solemn. We felt ourselves for once beyond the sight and sound of the world which gave us birth. One voice uttered the key-note, and then, as if we had but one soul, we sang— High in the heavens, Eternal God, Thy goodness in full glory shines; For ever firm thy justice stands As mountains their foundations keep; There was a charm in psalmody at that moment which I had never felt before, and it really seemed as if that charm were acknowledged by nature; for just at this moment there were movements in the cloud-world beneath us the masses were rolling, heaving, and cleaving here and there. Now the top of a green hill appeared, like an island rising from the depths to court the sunlight; now a slope was seen opening from beneath the passing mist; now a spire rose above the surface; and now a village peeped on the hill-side, and the clustering roofs of a more distant town sparkled as the sunbeams touched them. The clouds resolved themselves at length into river-like courses, filling the valleys and leaving the uplands to show themselves. The rivers. narrowed, became shallow streams, and at last, like silvery threads, they ran off towards the shore, until every filmy vapour was gone, even from the face of the sea, and the whole scene, with its glorious variety of hill and plain, valley and heath, woods and ocean, lay bright, calm, and beautiful beneath the setting sun. Fresh inspiration now came upon us, and we sang again God is a name my soul adores, Th' Almighty Three, th' eternal One, From thy great self thy being springs; And self-sufficience bears them all. Thy voice produced the seas and spheres, Through all these spacious works of Thine. Still restless nature dies and grows; From change to change the creatures run; Thy being no succession knows, And all thy vast designs are one. A glance of Thine runs through the globes, Thy guards are formed of living flame. Thrones and dominions round Thee fall, This little dwelling-place of worms. How shall affrighted mortals dare And see but shadows of thy face. Who can behold the blazing light? Who can approach consuming flame? None but thy word can speak thy name. 66 6 'Well,' said one, as we came down from the tower, 'I never before felt the music and power of those fine old hymns so deeply. Watts does not always keep us up so steadily to the end of the strain. Dear old singer! he had times of deep sympathy with the natural world, and often helps one, as he helped us to-day, to catch the inspiring breath of natural grandeur and beauty, so as to feel as if we were one with all the works of our heavenly Father.' "Yes,' said somebody else; but we owe much of our enjoyment of Watts to association, to the lingering influence of our early impressions about his hymns; and a great deal, too, in his case depends on the music to which his hymns are set. We enjoy his verses when they are sung more frequently than when we read them. I have a notion that it is with his hymns somewhat as it is with many of Thomas Moore's "Irish Melodies"; about which I am very willing to admit all that is said as to their graceful thought, their tender pathos, and bursts of heroic feeling. They have wonderful melody of words, too; but it strikes me that we have learnt to award to Moore's verses much that really belongs to the old tunes for which he provided the words. At all events, in reading many of them you but seldom find your soul arrested, while to hear them sung is to be mastered by the feeling which they create. Now, speaking of Tom Moore, I like him best when he gets away from amidst the rather wearisome gorgeousness of his Eastern imagery, and from the brilliant circles in which his genius and wit so brightly sparkle, and allows himself to be hushed into a devout feeling within the quietude of his cottage retreat. I like to find him in that little Wiltshire home, with its old-fashioned windows and trellised doorway, hung about with creepers and evergreens, and surrounded by such touching evidences of Divine goodness as melt the heart, and constrain the genius to express itself in hymns and spiritual songs. You say Watts had times of deep sympathy with the natural world-had not Moore? And had he not some reverent sympathy with the God of nature, too? And does he not help us to praise the source of life and beauty? Only listen to this: Thou art, O God, the life and light Are but reflections caught from Thee. When day, with farewell beam, delays Through golden vistas into heaven: When night, with wings of starry gloom, |