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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.

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WOULDst thou be taught, when sleep has taken

Hlight 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

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


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,

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

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




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 filed,
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 bad 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
Her restless progeny.

A humble walk
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


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