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As I watched the little songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline: Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies.
But, should he supplicate your laws in vain, To break, for ever, this disgraceful chain, At least, let gentle usage so abate The galling terrors of its passing state, That he may share kind Heav'n's all social plan; For, though no Briton, Mungo is a man."
While Heav'n's chancel-vault is blind with sleet, my mind takes its flight through too long a series of years, supported only by the patience of thought and secret yearnings after truth and good, for me to be at a loss to understand the feeling I intend to write about; but I do not know that this will enable me to convey it more agreeably to the reader.
For when 'tis Drowsie and carelesse of the future blisse, And to implore Heav'n's aid, it doth imply How far is it remote from the most High. For whilst our Hearts on Terrhen things we place, There cannot be least hope of Divine grace. 'Just such a mill is my mind, he said to himself. 'But can I suppose that to sit down and read all day like a monk, would bring me nearer to the thing I want?
For when 'tis Drowsie and carelesse of the future blisse, And to implore Heav'n's aid, it doth imply How far is it remote from the most High. For whilst our Hearts on Terrhen things we place, There cannot be least hope of Divine grace. 'Just such a mill is my mind, he said to himself. 'But can I suppose that to sit down and read all day like a monk, would bring me nearer to the thing I want?
Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply'd In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe talks from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content though blind, had I no better guide.
Merit like yours was Heav'n's peculiar care, You lov'd yet tasted happiness sincere: To you the sweets of love were only shown, The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown.
So he that saileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th' sowre, That's full of friends, of honour and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth even for heav'n's bower. But sad affliction comes & makes him see, Here's neither honour, wealth nor safety, Only above is found all with security.
The starry lights that heav'n's high convex crown'd The Pleiads, Hyads, and the northern beam, And great Orion's more refulgent beam, To which, around the cycle of the sky, The bear revolving, points his golden eye, Still shines exalted. And so forth. The Shield of Hercules displayed at its centre the polar constellation the Dragon. We read also that
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