Imatges de pÓgina

The smiling infant in his hand fhall take The crested basilik and speckled snake, Pleas'd the green luftre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future fons, and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ev'ry fide arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barb’rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs ! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains glow. See heav'n its fparkling portals wide display, And break


thee in a flood of day! No more the rising fun shall gild the morn, Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her filver horn ; But loft, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O’erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! The feas shall waste, the skies in smoke do Rocks fall to dust, and mountains But fix'd his word, his savin Thy realm for ever lafts


By the Same.


ATHER of all! in er’ry age,

In ev'ry clime ador'd,
By faint, by savage, and by fage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great first caue, leaft under ftuod :

Who all my sense confin’d
To know but this, that thon art gooring

And that myself am blind

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Yet not to earth's contracted span

Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of man,

When thousand worlds are round :

Let not this weak, unknowing hand

Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land,

On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart,

Still in the right to stay: If I am wrong, oh teach my

heart To find that better way:

Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denyd,

Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I fee; That mercy I to others show,

That mercy Thow to me.

Mean tho' I am, not wholly so,

Since quick’ned by thy breath;
O lead me wherefoe'er I

Thro' this day's life or death.


This day, be bread and peace my lot :

All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,

And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space,

Whose altar, earth, fea, ikies !
One chorus let all being raise !

All nature's incense rise !

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IR’D nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!

He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes :
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unfully'd with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more !
The day too short for my distress! and night,
Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is fun-fhine, to the colour of my fate.
Night, fable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a flumb'ring world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound !
Nor eye, nor lift'ning ear, an object finds;
Creation sleeps. 'Tis, as the gen'ral pulse
Of life stood ftill, and nature made a pause ;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be foon fulfill'd;
Fate! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more.
O Thou ! whose word from solid darkness ftruck
That spark the sun; strike wisdom from my soul ;
My soul, which flies to thee, her truft, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others reft.


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