THERE is a lovely vale, that, isle-like, sleeps
Embosom'd in the rough and craggy hills
Of Tennessee. Girt round, as with a storm-
Toss'd sea, by mountains hoar, precipitous
And wild, its verdant basin lies at rest,
And in the summer sun-shine smiles, as 'twere
A soft and beauteous dimple on the harsh
And furrow'd visage of the land. 'Twas eve,
The loveliest of the spring, and in that vale,
From their far homes among the distant hills,
And desert solitudes, a mighty throng
Had gather'd round, to meet and worship God.
There were the grey-hair'd fathers of the land;
And there, in sober manhood's hardiest prime,
Their forest-sons. And their sons' sons were there;
Their young eyes glist'ning with the looks
Of aw'd and wondering curiosity.
And there were mothers with their infant babes,
Delightful burdens, slumbering in their arms;
And aged matrons, and the young and fair-
Hair'd maidens, with their eyes of light, and looks,
That told the sweet day dreams of youth and hope.
There were the young divines, severely plain
In dress, and look of sanctity; and there
Old pilgrims of the cross, whose wandering feet,
For three-score years, had borne to cities full,
To crowded populous plains, and to the few,
That met, and worship'd in the wilderness,
The Gospel's peaceful mission; who had preach'd
From the broad Lawrence, and his nursing lakes,
To streams, that ripple in the southern breeze;
And still the burden of their theme, to laud
The power of Him, who died upon the tree.
Such was the crow'd, that from their distant homes
Had met, and peopled that green solitude.
The shades of evening slowly gather'd round,
And deepen'd into gloom, until at length
Their bright and cheerful fires were kindled up,
And they in many a scatter'd group were seen,
Some visiting around from tent to tent;
Some meeting in the midst with interchange
Of friendly questionings, and words of love,
And greetings apostolic. And there were,
That walk'd apart, as though wrapt up in deep,-
And solitary meditations. They,
Perchance, dwelt on the coming rites, and girt
Them for the sanctuary's services.
Meanwhile the mountains with their tow'ring peaks,
Stood forth, their blackening masses pictur'd on
The sky, as from behind their summits rose
The full-orb'd moon, and far o'er hills and vales
Her pale and melancholy radiance cast.
Her slanting rays glanc'd through the opening trees,
And, here and there, at intervals between
Their branches, some bright star was seen, as 'twere
A living spirit looking forth from its
Blue resting place. But the dim light of moon
And stars shone feebly through that forest's gloom,
Nor lighted up its sombre aisles, obscure,
And dun, save where a thousand torches from
Its giant trunks suspended, shed around
Their fiery brilliance, and display'd its broad,
And overhanging arches, and its huge,
And ivy-wreathed columns, 'till it seem'd
A glorious temple, worthy of a God.
At length the hour of evening worship came;
And on their rustic seats, fresh cleft, and hewn
From the huge poplars, and in many a range
Of circling rows dispos'd, in quiet sat
The expectant multitude. Oh, 'twas a scene!
The silent thousands, that were list'ning there,
'Midst the gray columns of that ancient wood,
Its dark green roof, the rows of whitening tents,
That circled in the distance, and the clear,
And sparkling waters of the mountain-stream,
In torch light gleaming, as it danc'd along;
And, more than all, the rustling leaves, that caught
On their moist surfaces the light, and wav'd
On every bough, now in their native green,
And now in burnish'd gold. The preacher rose:
He was an aged veteran of the cross,
Whose thin, grey locks had whiten'd in the snows
Of four-score winters, and whose feeble sight
No longer from their letter'd tablets conn'd
The chosen text, and answering song of praise;
But with a memory, quicken'd, till it seem'd
Almost an inspiration, and a voice,
That age alone made tremulous, he spoke
A simple, well known hymn. And when he ceas'd, From the deep silence of that desert vale,
A mighty sound, the mingling voices of
A thousand tongues, in one proud anthem rose;
And as it rose, far through its hoary depths,
The forest shook; and from the distant hills,
Like the far rush of many waters, deep,
Long, and reverberating echoes came.
Loud burst the song; now swelling to the sky-
Now soft'ning down, and at each measur'd close.
Along the woods expiring; till at length
'Twas hush'd into a stillness so intense,
That the half sigh of penitence alone,
Throughout that multitude, was audible.
And then again that trembling voice was heard,
In fervent accents breathing forth the warm,
And heaven-ward aspirations of a soul,
Whose strugglings shook its weak old tenement.
His words were simple, humble, solemn, deep-
Such as befit a prostrate sinner's lips,
When from the depths his earnest cries ascend
Up to the mercy seat; yet words of power;
As 'twere strong wrestlings, that would not release
The cov'nant angel, 'till the jubilee
Of slaves, enfranchis'd from the iron chains
Of sin and hell, announc'd the captive free.
And then he plead, that brighter scenes of things,
And glad millennial days of promise yet
In this dark world might dawn upon his eye.
And truth and mercy fill the peopled earth,
E'en as the waters fill their pathless beds.
And then, invoking audience for a theme,
To which the babbling tricks of eloquence
Of Greece and Rome, were children's idle sports,
He rose, to lure back wandering souls to God.
His burden was, 'I tell you there is joy
In heaven, when one repentant sinner comes
Home to his God.' The trembling orator,
Pois'd on his mighty task, and with his theme,
Warm'd into power, applied the golden key,
That opes the sacred fount of joy and tears.
His solemn paintings flash'd upon the eye
The hopeless realms, where dwells impenitence,
The tearless mansions of a happier world;
The Eternal sitting on his spotless throne
For Judgment, and an universe arraign'd
For doom, unchanging, as his trath and power,
Deem not, I fondly dare the hopeless task,
To paint the force of sacred eloquence;
Or trace the holy man through all his theme.
Were all, like him, thus fearlessly to grasp
The pillars of the dark colossal towers
Of the destroyer's kingdom, 'till it shook,
A happier era soon might dawn to earth.
E'en yet in better hours o'er memory comes
His picture of the wand'ring prodigal,
With devious, comet-course, receding still
From God and hope to mercy's utmost verge;
And there, arrested by th' unceasing power
Of the great Shepherd's love, and by divine
Attraction turn'd, and circling back to God:
The choral anthems still, methinks, I hear,
Symphonious, swelling acclamations loud
From heavenly hosts, to hail the wanderer home:
There are, to whom all this would only seem
Fit subject for the scorner's idle mirth.
The cold and scanning critic's sneer I felt
Were out of place. But flitting visions pass'd,
Like light'ning scorching through my wilder'd brain;
And memory's spectres sprang up from the past.
My earth-born schemes, my palaces of hope,
Lately so proud, all melted into air.
Eternity, and truth, and God alone remain'd.
'Twas, as the Great Invisible had come
power, o'ershadowing all the vale.
I almost look'd, to see the mountains smoke,
Emitting Sinai's thunderings and fires.
Nor was I single; many a sin-worn face
Was pale, and woman's sympathetic tears,
And children's flow'd, and men, who thought no shame,
In tears. The proud ones, looking down in scorn
From fancied intellectual heights, whose hearts
The world had sear'd; e'en these, unconscious, caught
Th' infectious weakness, like the rest, and though
They only came to mock, remain'd to pray.'
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