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THE MINISTRY OF NATURE; OR, THE TEMPLE SERVICE OF THE SEASONS, by                    
First Line: Ordained of god to preach the truth to men
Last Line: Thus nature worships god the whole year through.
Subject(s): Indian Summer; Native Americans - History; Nature; Preaching & Preachers; Seasons


PRELUDE

Ordained of God to preach the truth to men,
The universe itself a temple vast,
Sweet Nature, changing vestments now and then,
Conducts one service while the twelve months last.

For, ere God's finger touched the sacred stone
That gave the Law to Moses and the race,
His praise through æons rolled from zone to zone—
The seasons four, one grand quartet of grace.

Then come with rev'rent heart and list'ning ear,
Attend the service this fair priestess brings,
Although perchance a minor note we hear
E'en while the choir a Jubilate sings.

SPRING

The spring is Nature's convocation time.
The temple, garlanded from nave to dome,
Will hold an oratorio sublime
Proclaiming that the King of kings has come.

The waking world for worship seems to yearn.
Buds burst themselves in over-ecstasies,
Till incense flows from many a flowret urn,
To blend with balsam from the balmy trees.
Hark! Myriad bells announce the hour of song,
As bird and blade and every living thing
Calls to our fallen race, a dull-eared throng:
"God lives, and life is yours—arise and sing."

The treble of the wingèd choir we hear,
With soft contraltò of the swaying tree,
While tenor tones of rippling waters near
Blend with the hollow basso of the sea.

SUMMER

Green-sandaled Spring no longer walks the lea—
The em'rald belt he bound about his bride
Now turns to gold beneath the alchemy
Of her whose wand shall still the worship guide.

The summer is her hour of argument.
The sermon grows more powerful and intense,
Convincing all beneath God's cloud-girt tent,
If they but listen ere their summons hence,

That God in wisdom made the world complete;
That all may dwell in Him when earth is done.
And lo, like quiv'ring plains of noontide heat,
Their fiery zeal has risen with the sun.

The vast assemblage, filling earth and sky,
Breaks forth. Rare anthems rise and roll.
"Forget not all his benefits," they cry,
While echoes answer, "Bless the Lord, my soul!"

AUTUMN

The altar service of the ripening year,
When pious Nature makes her solemn call!
The rustling of her surret robe I hear,
And mellow hearts like mellowing apples fall.

Heads bow, and chant with husky breath:
"Seed time and harvest shall not cease their round"—
And echoes from the wintry sea of Death
On deep'ning stillness float with plaintive sound.

'Tis Indian Summer, and its minor strain
Of mingled sadness and of chastened mirth
Soon dies like distant sobbing of the main.
'Tis Nature's benediction on the earth.

WINTER

As man, once turned against the Holy One,
Gropes through the Arctic Winter-night of sin,
Our sphere no longer leans toward the sun
Whose kiss its daily light and life has been.

Yet pious Nature has not ceased to pray,
Though lulled to sweet forgetfulness she seems—
Death but reveals the resurrection ray
And o'er the tomb the Bow of Promise gleams.

The winter is her hour of secret prayer,
When she retreats and waits for strength anew,
By angels wrapt in robes of ermine rare,
Thus Nature worships God the whole year through.





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