"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;
Exhaled, the essential odours 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 this 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 unsensualise the mind, Decay and languish; or, as creeds
Is fragrant with a humbler vow;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles, And vapours 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.
"CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR."
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence- how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear !
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins his little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. A stream is heard- I see it not, but know By its soft music whence the waters flow:
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more; One boat there was, but it will touch the shore With the next dipping of its slackened oar;
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, As a last token of man's toilsome day!
"IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN."
If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care; Nor gain, from past or future, skill To bear, and to forbear!
ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND,
EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 7, THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.
THE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,
Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. Look round; - of all the clouds not one is moving; 'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, The boundless plain of waters seems to lie: Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore? No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, Whispering how meek and gentle he can be! Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood Of ocean roused into its fiercest mood, Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain; Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice In admonitions of thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace, Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear, Glad to expand; and, for a season, free From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee !
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