dress'd,

From her rich o'erflowing stores : These to thee, my God, we owe, Source whence all our blessings flow; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise.

bracing,

And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing. At length she rose complete in finish'd pride, All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride: Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood, Her Maker bless'd his work, and call'd it good, The morning stars, with joyful acclamation, Exulting sung, and hail'd the new creation.

Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, Tho' built by God's right hand, must pass

away;

And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all hunian glory. The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest, Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest : His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, Amidst the common ruins of the sky! The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, And bathe their glitt'ring foreheads in the ocean. But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne; Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;

Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, Collected or diffus'd is still the same. He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence, And fills all space with his unbounded presence. But oh! our highest notes the theme debase, And silence is our least injurious praise: [trol, Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight conRevere him in the stillness of the soul; With silent duty meekly bend before him, And deep within your inmost hearts adore him.

HYMN II.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise*,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ;
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the gen'rous olive's use;
Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain,
Clouds that drop their fatt ning dews,
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse;

From its stem the rip'ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;
Should thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blast each op'ning bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;
Yet to thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows, and solemn praise!
And, when ev'ry blessing's flown,
Love thee-for thyself alone.

HYMN III.

For Easter-Sunday.
AGAIN the lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray;
Unseals the eyelids of the morn,
And pours increasing day.

O what a night was that which wrapt
The heathen world in gloom!
O what a sun which broke this day,
Triumphant from the tomb!
This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in ev'ry heart,

And praise on ev'ry tongue.
Ten thousand diff'ring lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn;
Which scatters blessings from its wings
To nations yet unborn.

Jesus, the friend of human kind,
With strong compassion mov'd,
Descended, like a pitying God,

To save the souls he lov'd.
The pow'rs of darkness leagu'd in vain
To bind his soul in death;
He shook their kingdom, when he fell,
With his expiring breath.

Not long the toils of hell could keep
The hope of Judah's line;

Corruption never could take hold
On aught so much divine.

And now his conqu'ring chariot wheels

Ascend the lofty skies;

While broke, beneath his pow'rful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies.

Exalted high at God's right hand,

And Lord of all below,

Through him is pard'ning love dispens'd,
And boundless blessings flow.
And still for erring, guilty man

A brother's pity flows;

And still his bleeding heart is touch'd
With mem'ry of our woes.

To thee, my Saviour and my King,
Glad homage let me give;
And stand, prepar'd, like thee to die,
With thee that I may live.

HYMN IV.

BEHOLD where, breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!

His weeping followers, gath'ring round,
Receive his last commands.
From that mild Teacher's parting lip
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept which he gave
Became its author well.

"Bless'd is the man whose soft'ning heart
"Feels all another's pain:
"To whom the supplicating eye
"Was never rais'd in vain ;
"Whose breast expands with gen'rous warmth
"A stranger's woes to feel :
"And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
"He wants the pow'r to heal.
"He spreads his kind supporting arms
"To ev'ry child of grief;
"His secret bounty largely flows,
"And brings unask'd relief.

"To gentle offices of love
"His feet are never slow;

"He views, through mercy's melting eye,
"A brother in a foe.

"Peace from the bosom of his God,

My peace to him I give !

"And when he kneels before the throne, "His trembling soul shall live. "To him protection shall be shown, "And mercy from above "Descend on those who thus fulfil "The perfect law of love."

HYMN V.

AWAKE, my soul! lift up thine eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a num'rous host;
Awake, my soul, or thou art lost.
Here giant Danger threat'ning stands
Must'ring his pale terrific bands;
There Pleasure's silken banners spread,
And willing souls are captive led.

See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousands and ten thousands slain.
Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard ev'ry part,
But most the traitor in thy heart.

Come then, my soul, now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield;
Put on the armor from above

Of heav'nly truth and heav'nly love.
The terror and the charm repel,
And pow'rs of earth, and pow'rs of hell;
The man of Calvary triumph'd here;
Why should his faithful followers fear?

§ 41. An Address to the Deity. Mrs. Barbauld. Deus est quodcunque vides, quocunque moveris. LUCAN.

GOD of my life, and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallow'd name to harps of Seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest Seraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in ev'ry diff'rent sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.

All Nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which Nature's works, thro' all her parts, proclaim.

I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness thro' my soul;
As by a charm the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace,
my
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes,
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd;
Marks the young dawn of ev'ry virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame:
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give :
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live.
From each terrestrial bondage set me free;
Still ev'ry wish that centres not in thee;

Bid my

fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,

When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flatt' ring scene,
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart-Beware!
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice.
If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, [way,
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live;
Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name emblazon'd high
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky.
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib'd on ev'ry tree:
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In ev'ry creature own thy forming pow'r,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control.
Thus shall I rest unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

'Tis past! the sultry tyrant of the south [hours
Has spent his short-liv'd rage: more grateful
Move silent on: the skies no more repel
The dazzled sight; but, with mild maiden beams
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere; where, hung aloft,
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns,
Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines,
Ev'n in the eye of day; with sweetest beam
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace; while meeken'd Eve,
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires
Through the Hesperian gardens of the west,
And shuts the gates of day. "Tis now the hour
When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Of unpierc'd woods, where, wrapt in silent shade,

She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon,
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun,
Moves forward; and with radiant finger points
To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine,
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of æther
One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling
fires,

And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye,
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd
O'er all this field of glories: spacious field,
And worthy of the master: he whose hand,
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile,
Inscrib'd the mystic tablet: hung on high
To public gaze; and said, Adore, O man,
The finger of thy God! From what pure wells
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn,
Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps,
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil

Their destin'd courses: Nature's self is hush'd,
And, but a scatter'd leaf which rustles through
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air; though the rais'd ear,
Intensely list'ning, drinks in ev'ry breath.
How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise!
But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in ev'ry star that talks with man,
And wooes him to be wise? nor wooes in vain.
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo God; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun
(Fair transitory creature of a day)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades,
Forgets his wonted journey through the east.
Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods!
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul,
Revolving periods past, may oft look back,
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events,
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours-O be it lawful now
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And with mute wonder and delighted awe
Approach your burning confines!--Seis'd in
On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail [thought,
From the green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant;
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons,
Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exil'd monarch; fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space, [pear,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns ap-

Of elder beam; which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day;
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And only less than him who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen
Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The deserts of creation, wide and wild,.
Where embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But, oh thou mighty Mind! whose pow'rful
word

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were,
Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd
Invoke thy dread perfection?-

Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support thy throne? O look with pity down
On erring, guilty man! not in thy names
Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd
The scatter'd tribes! Thou hast a gentler voice
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.

But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her pow'rs In flights so daring, drops her weary wing, And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and

streams;

A mansion fair and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait the appointed time,
And ripen for the skies; the hour will come
When all these splendors bursting on my sight
Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown.

§ 43. Hymn to Content. Mrs. Barbauld.
-natura beatos

Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.
CLAUD.

O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow.
Not all the storms that shake the pole,
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.

O come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdu'd delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temp'rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,

He bow'd his meek submitted head,

And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r,

And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day:
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And ev'ry storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whisp'ring through the shade.
§ 44. To Wisdom. Mrs. Barbauld.
Dona præsentis rape laetus horæ, ac
Linque severa.
HORAT.

O WISDOM, if thy soft control
Can sooth the sickness of the soul,
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace:
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear;
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh;
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r
To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow;
Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!

Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!
Let these, in fairy colors drest,
For ever share my careless breast:
Then, tho' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

$45. Despondency. An Ode. Burns. OPPRES'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
A long, a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear?

What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy! ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same.
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,

Less fit to play the part,

The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop and just to move,

With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate!

Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable early days,

When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's maze,
To Care, to Guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies or the crimes
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age!

§ 46. The Frailty and Folly of Man. Prior. GREAT Heav'n! how frail thy creature Man is made!

How by himself insensibly betray'd!

In our own strength unhappily secure,
Too little cautious of the adverse pow'r;
And, by the blast of self-opinion mov'd,
We wish to charm, and seek to be belov'd.
On pleasure's flow'ry brink we idly stray,
Masters as yet of our returning way:
Seeing no danger, we disarm our mind,
And give our conduct to the waves and wind:
Then in the flow'ry mead, or verdant shade,
To wanton dalliance negligently laid,

We weave the chaplet, and we crown the bowl,
And smiling see the nearer waters roll:
Till the strong gusts of raging passion rise,
Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies;
And, swift into the boundless ocean borne,
Our foolish confidence too late we mourn:
Round our devoted heads the billows beat;
And from our troubled view the lessen'd lands

retreat.

$47. A Paraphrase on the latter part of the Sixth
Chapter of St. Matthew. Thomson.
WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
Oh let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart:

Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While on the roof the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain ?

And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again?
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?
Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them nor stores nor granaries belong,
Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song;
Yet your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing when spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music or their plaint in vain ;