To The Clouds.

O painted clouds ! sweet beauties of the sky,     How have I view'd your motion and your rest,     When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,     In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;     Or in your threaten'd thunder's grave black vest,     Like black deep waters slowly moving by,     Awfully striking the spectator's breast     With your Creator's dread sublimity,     As admiration mutely views your storms.     And I do love to see you idly lie,     Painted by heav'n as various as your forms,     Pausing upon the eastern mountain high,     As morn awakes with spring's wood-harmony;     And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth     You hang the western arch o'er day's proud eye:     Still as the even-pool, uncurv'd and smooth,     My gazing soul has look'd most placidly;     And higher still devoutly wish'd to strain,     To wipe your shrouds and sky's blue blinders by,     With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,--     To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign,     And view the dwelling of all majesty.