Triumphal arch, that fill'st the
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud
To teach me what thou art; -Still seem; as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station
For happy spirits to
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green, undeluged
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers
To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow luster smiledO'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the prophet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle, castO'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the
First sported in thy beam:
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
