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Nor wholly lost upon the throng
Hurrying the busy streets along?

Alas! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualize the mind, Decay and languish; or, as creeds

And humors change, are spurned like weeds: The priests are from their altars thrust;

Temples are levelled with the dust;

And solemn rites and awful forms
Founder amid fanatic storms.

Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude

Of seasons balancing their flight

On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door
Wide open for the scattered Poor.
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies;

And ground fresh-cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with a humbler vow;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles,

And vapors magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head, –
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Eternal Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Divine monition Nature yields,
That not by bread alone we live,

Or what a hand of flesh can give;

That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart:

So shall the seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest.

XLVII.

1832.

THE CUCKOO-CLOCK.

WOULDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,

By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,
How far off yet a glimpse of morning light,
And if to lure the truant back be well,
Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke,

That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour;
Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock
For service hung behind thy chamber door;
And in due time the soft, spontaneous shock,
The double note, as if with living power,
Will to composure lead, or make thee blithe as
bird in bower.

List, Cuckoo!-Cuckoo ! - oft though tempests howl,

Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare,

How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl,
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air:
I speak with knowledge,― by that Voice beguiled,
Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild
Through fresh green fields, and budding groves
among,

Will make thee happy, happy as a child;

Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song, And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.

And know, that, even for him who shuns the day And nightly tosses on a bed of pain ;

Whose joys, from all but memory swept away, Must come unhoped for, if they come again; Know, that, for him whose waking thoughts,

severe

As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme,
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear

In sleep, and intermingling with his dream,
Could from sad regions send him to a dear
Delightful land of verdure, shower, and gleam,
To mock the wandering Voice beside some haunt-
ed stream.

O bounty without measure! while the grace

Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest

springs,

Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace

A mazy course along familiar things,

Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come,
Streaming from founts above the starry sky,
With angels, when their own untroubled home
They leave, and speed on nightly embassy
To visit earthly chambers, and for whom?
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance try,
And those that seek his help, and for his mercy
sigh.

XLVIII.

TO THE CLOUDS.

ARMY of Clouds! ye winged Host in troops
Ascending from behind the motionless brow
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world,
O whither with such eagerness of speed?
What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale
Companions, fear ye to be left behind,
Or, racing o'er your blue, ethereal field,
Contend ye with each other? of the sea
Children, thus post ye over vale and height
To sink upon your mother's lap, and rest?
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes
Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness
Of a wide army pressing on to meet
Or overtake some unknown enemy? -

But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim;
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares
Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds
Aerial, upon due migration bound
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage,

To pause at last on more aspiring heights
Than these, and utter your devotion there
With thundrous voice? Or are ye jubilant,
And would ye, tracking your proud lord, the Sun,
Be present at his setting; or the pomp
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand
Poising your splendors high above the heads
Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God?
Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of
speed?

Speak, silent creatures.

They are gone, are fled,

Buried together in yon gloomy mass

That loads the middle heaven; and clear and

bright

And vacant doth the region which they thronged
Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting
Down to the unapproachable abyss,

Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose
To vanish,- fleet as days and months and years,
Fleet as the generations of mankind,

Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,

The lingering world, when time had ceased to be.
But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,
And see! a bright precursor to a train

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