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One general fong! To Him, ye vocal gales,
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes ;
Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms !
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.


whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th’impetuous fong, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; And let me catch it as I muse along: Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His ftupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and Aowers, In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he


beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike,

Amid the spangled sky, the filver lyre.
Great source of day! beit image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On Nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world ;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills, ye moffy rocks,
Retain the found : the broad responsive lowe,
Ye valleys, raise ; for the GREAT SHEPHERD reigns ;
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song
Burst from the groves! and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela ! charm
The listening shades, and teach the night Hıs praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vaft,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear,
At folemn pauses, through the swelling base ;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardor rise to heaven.
Or if you rather chuse the rural shade,

And find a fane in


There let the shepherd's fute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still fing the God of Seasons, as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the summer-ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams ;
Or Winter rises in the blackening east ;
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !
Should fate command me to the fartheft

verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full ; And where He vital breathes there must be joy, When even at last the folemn hour shall come, And wing my myftic Aight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where UNIVERSAL Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their fons; From seeming Evil ftill educing Good,

And Better thence again, and Better still,
In infinite progreffion. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light INEFFABLE ;
Come then, expressive fýlence, muse His praise.


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