They are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away.
THESE words were utter'd in a pensive mood,
Even while mine eyes were on that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood:
It is unstable, and deserts me quite;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
The grove, the sky-built temple, and the dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal mind craves objects that endure;
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it; their fellowship is secure.
Printed by J. F. DOVE. St. John's Square.