Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/265

 With earth it seems brave holyday, In heaven it looks high jubilee. And it is right, For mark, love, mark! How bathed in light Chirrups the lark: Chirrup! chirrup! he upward flies, Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel The voice of heaven within them thrill, In summer morn when mounting high This merry minstrel sings his fill. Now let us seek yon bosky dell Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be, And where its clear stream murmurs on, Meet type of our love's purity; No witness there, And o'er us hark! High in the air Chirrups the lark: Chirrup! chirrup! away soars he, Bearing to heaven my vows to thee!