On the light rills, that warble, as the wind, Gales hollow-roaring, hoarse resounding woods, Rude hanging rocks, dread shades, and dashing floods, Exalt, and soothe, and harmonize the mind. Then every rude emotion sinks to rest, O'er Nature's ample field her fancy strays, Now Horror's shade she seeks, and central cave, And catch new rapture from the Seraph's lyre. Then welcome, Night! thou awful pleasing fair! While the moon seems along the clouds to sail, Which round her throne like fleecy flakes appear, And now half hide her radiance, now reveal. Pride wants the Sun her plumage to display ; Draws her rich splendours, or imbibes her joy; Reason's clear beam and Virtue's flame divine Shall with their own eternal glories shine, When worlds and suns in endless darkness die. And thou, Great Father! guard my sleeping hours, Bid the wild war of striving passions cease, Compose in pleasing harmony my powers, And o'er my throbbing bosom breathe thy peace. Thrice-happy souls who thy protection share! Virtue in thy parental arms at rest Securely lies, as stranger yet to fear The suckling slumbers on its mother's breast. Spirits, that hurl the thunders down the sky, Or drive the chariot of the storms on high, And shake o'er trembling Guilt the fiery rod, Oft bid their vengeful rage the pious spare; Even flames, amid the general wreck, revere And pass untouch'd those temples of their God. REV. H. MOORE. ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM. LET others hail the rising sun, I bow to that whose course is run, Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle, No bounty past provokes my praise, VOL. III. R From real grief they flow; I catch the' alarm from Britain's fears, See, as you pass the crowded street, You read in every pensive eye, If thus each Briton is alarm'd What! mute, ye bards?—no mournful verse, No chaplets to adorn his hearse, To crown the good and just? Your flowers in warmer regions bloom, When power departed with his breath, Hath some peculiar strange offence To check the nation's pride? Uncheck'd by shame, unawed by dread, The same sad morn* to church and state By angels watch'd in Eden's bowers, Look down, much honour'd shade, below! Stretch out thy healing hand; Search, with thy more than mortal eye, The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of the late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham. What there has got possession. In some for truth mistook not art, From these, the pests of humankind, And crush them ere they sting. If such his trust and honours share, Each venom'd heart disclose; On Him, on Him our all depends, Oh, save him from his treacherous friends, He cannot fear his foes. Whoe'er shall at the helm preside, No selfish views to' oppress mankind, To hear no lawless passion's call, |