"How dazzling is thy beauty! how divine!
How dim the lustre of the world to thine!"
The sublimity of the scene, when first beheld, produced unlimited astonishment; viewed again and again, all was softened down into harmonious shades of beauty, imparting a pleasure that cannot be understood by mere dwellers amidst the works of man.
Noon in the forest
In the forest, every hour of the night and day is the Creator present to the eye. Surrounded by the works of man, we sometimes lose sight of our Maker, and do not always properly appreciate his attributes. I have said that the morning gives life and activity to myriads of his creatures, who declare his power; but not less expressive is the hour of tranquillity—the hour of noon. At that hour, all is suddenly hushed into solemn silence. Stillness, as if by general consent, concert, or word of command, influences all the sylvan communities—a stillness illumined and made more manifest by the dazzling and burning beams of a meridian sun.
Creation at that hour appears wearied, fatigued, and overcome with the splendour of the day; it is as the face of God himself, before whose glory all things are struck with awe, and pause to acknowledge His majesty. Nothing moves—it is the hour of nature's siesta—yet the stillness speaks.
"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine,
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream."
The quietness is that of a pause in the running stream of time; the air is motionless, the leaves hang pendant, as waiting in the presence of a deity for permission to resume the business of growth. The silence that reigns at the hour of noon is peculiarly of a religious character; there is nothing to which it can be compared but itself. From the nobles of the forest to the minutest insect, all appear to be at their devotions—the propensity to kill, for the time being, is forgotten or suspended,—
"The passions to divine repose alone
Persuaded yield; and love and joy are waking."
It is as if the naiads and fairies had deserted the sunbeams and fallen asleep. Oh! there is a harmony in nature wonderfully attuned to the intelligence of man, if he would but listen to it. The hour of noon, in the woods, is an hour of intellectual transcendentalism; it lifts the thoughts beyond the world, and peoples the grove with spirits of another world. Yet is there nothing in motion but the beams of the sun penetrating the foliage to the base of the trees—
"The chequered earth seems restless as a flood
Brushed by the winds, so sportive is the light
Shot through the boughs; it dances as they dance,
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And dark'ning and enlight'ning (as the beams
Play wanton) every part."