The harp at Nature’s advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar curtains of the hills
Are sunset’s purple air.
The blue sky is the temple’s arch,
Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.
HOW THE MYTHS AROSE.
The Greeks lived much in the open air, and dearly loved the trees, the flowers, the birds, the sea and sky.
They watched the clouds floating in the beautiful azure dome, sometimes in long lines like soldiers, sometimes looking like great curly white feathers, and sometimes piled high like mountains of snow.
They saw the sun rise, coloring the clouds and awakening all things on the earth; and they watched him sink in the western sky, flooding the heavens with brilliant hues.