Not undiversified, though smooth and even; We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then; Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; XLVI. 1817. DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. "Not to the earth confined, Ascend to heaven." WHERE will they stop, those breathing Powers, They wander with the breeze, they wind From humble violet, modest thyme, 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 Mount from the earth; aspire! aspire While incense from the altar breathes Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, And for no transient ecstasies! Not wasted on the attendant crowd, Nor wholly lost upon the throng Alas! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualize the mind, Decay and languish; or, as creeds And humors change, are spurned like weeds : And solemn rites and awful forms Yet evermore, through years renewed Of seasons balancing their flight On the swift wings of day and night, 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 And vapors magnify and spread The glory of the sun's bright head, - Or what a hand of flesh can give; That every day should leave some part So shall the seventh be truly blest, XLVII. 1832. THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. WOULDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour; List, Cuckoo!-Cuckoo!- oft though tempests How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl, 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, In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, O bounty without measure! while the grace springs, Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace |