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.
ARMY of Clouds! ye wingèd 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?
Buried together in yon gloomy mass
That loads the middle heaven; and clear and
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
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock That sullenly refuses to partake
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life Invisible, the long procession moves
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, And in the bosom of the firmament
O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, A type of her capacious self and all
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, A little hoary line and faintly traced, Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot Or of his flock?-joint vestige of them both. I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts
Admit no bondage and my words have wings. Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, To accompany the verse? The mountain blast Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales Which by their aid reclothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods, And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers Love them; and every idle breeze of air Bends to the favorite burden. Moon and stars
Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, As if some Protean art the change had wrought, In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings! Ye are their perilous offspring; and the Sun- Source inexhaustible of life and joy,
And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse, A blazing intellectual deity -
Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood
Visions with all but beatific light
too transient were they not renewed
and did not, while we gaze
In silent rapture, credulous desire
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought! Yet why repine, created as we are
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE.
THE gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim The daring thought, forget the name;
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they Through India's spicy regions wing their way, Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee, Of all thy feathered progeny
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? So richly decked in variegated down,
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown,
Tints softly with each other blended,
Hues doubtfully begun and ended;
Or intershooting, and to sight
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light
Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there?
Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life
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