Not undiversified, though smooth and even;

We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then;

Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ;
And earth and stars composed a universal heaven!

XLVI.

1817.

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS.

"Not to the earth confined,

Ascend to heaven."

WHERE will they stop, those breathing Powers,
The Spirits of the new-born flowers?

They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aërial harmonies;

From humble violet, modest thyme,
Exhaled, the essential odors climb,
As if no space below the sky

Their subtle flight could satisfy:

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride

If like ambition be their guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May showers, The spirit-quickener of the flowers,

That with moist virtue softly cleaves
The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The birds pour forth their souls in notes
Of rapture from a thousand throats,
Here checked by too impetuous haste,
While there the music runs to waste
With bounty more and more enlarged,
Till the whole air is overcharged;
Give ear, O Man! to their appeal,
And thirst for no inferior zeal,
Thou, who canst think as well as feel.

Mount from the earth; aspire! aspire
So pleads the town's cathedral quire,
In strains that from their solemn height
Sink, to attain a loftier flight;

While incense from the altar breathes
Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths;
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds
Around angelic Forms, the still
Creation of the painter's skill,
That on the service wait concealed
One moment, and the next revealed.

Cast off your bonds, awake, arise,

And for no transient ecstasies!
What else can mean the visual plea
Of still or moving imagery, -
The iterated summons loud,

Not wasted on the attendant crowd,

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

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