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 30 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, 35 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 the visual plea 40 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? 45 Alas! the sanctities combined By art to unsensualise the mind, Decay and languish; or, as creeds And humours change, are spurned like weeds: The priests are from their altars thrust; 50 Temples are levelled with the dust; And solemn rites and awful forms Founder amid fanatic storms.[744][745] Yet evermore, through years renewed In undisturbed vicissitude 55 Of seasons balancing their flight On the swift wings of day and night, Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door Wide open for the scattered Poor. Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 60 Is wafted in mute harmonies; And ground fresh-cloven by the plough Is fragrant with a humbler vow; Where birds and brooks from leafy dells Chime forth unwearied canticles, 65 And vapours magnify and spread The glory of the sun's bright head-- Still constant in her worship, still Conforming to the eternal Will,[746] Whether men sow or reap the fields, 70 Divine monition[747] 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: 75 So shall the seventh be truly blest, From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. FOOTNOTES: [742] See _Paradise Lost_, book v. ll. 78-80-- Not to Earth confined, But sometimes in the Air, as we; sometimes Ascend to heaven. ED. [743] Compare, in Bacon's _Essays_, No. 46, 'Of Gardens,' "The _Breath_ of Flowers is farre Sweeter in the Aire, when it comes and goes, like the Warbling of Musick."--ED. [744] 1836. The solemn rites, the awful forms, Founder amid fanatic storms; The priests are from their altars thrust, The temples levelled with the dust: 1835.