树林是上帝最早的庙宇。在人类学会砍伐树干，铺设门楣，在他们之上铺开屋顶之前，在他建造高耸的拱顶之前，在他收集和传播圣歌的声音之前;在昏暗的树林里，在凉爽和寂静中，他跪下来，向最庄严的上帝表示感谢和恳求。因为他纯朴的心灵也许抵挡不住那神圣的力量，那力量从这地方寂静的暮色中，从高悬在天上的青苔丛生的枝干中，从那看不见的、立刻摇曳着绿枝的呼吸的声音中，悄悄地笼罩着他，用一种无限的力量和难以企及的威严的思想，把他的灵魂压弯了。啊，我们为什么要在世界成熟的时候，忽视上帝古老的圣所，而只在人群中，在我们脆弱的双手所筑起的屋檐下崇拜呢?让我，至少，在这里，在这棵老树的阴影里，献上一首赞美诗——如果它在他的耳朵里得到接纳，那将是三倍的快乐。父啊，你亲手竖立了这些可敬的柱子，你编织了这翠绿的屋顶。你俯视着光秃秃的大地，立刻就长出了一排排美丽的树木。它们在你的阳光下发芽，在微风中摇曳着绿叶，向天堂飞去。生在树梢上的百岁乌鸦，老了，死在枝头上，直到最后，它们像现在一样，挺立着，厚重，高大，黑暗，成为谦卑的崇拜者与造物主共进的神龛。 These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here---thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship;---Nature, here, In the tranquility that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak--- By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated---not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as lofty as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me---the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die---but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses----ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death---yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne---the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them;---and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the village; when, at