Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/482



, my Fancy! Thou art free— Nor bolt nor shackle fetters thee! Thy prison door is cleft in twain, And Nature claims her child again; Doff the base weeds of toil and strife, And hail the world's returning life!

Up and away! 'Tis Nature's voice Bids thee hie field ward and rejoice; She calls thee from unhallowed mirth To walk with beauty o'er the earth; Proudly she calls thee forth, and now Prints blandest kisses on thy brow; On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare, She pours the balmy morning air: The fulness of a mother's breast Swells for thee in this gracious hour; Up, Sluggard, up! from dreams unblest, And let thy heart its love outpour!