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Man, though a worm, would yet be

great; Though feeble, would seem strong; Assumes an independent state,

By sacrilege and wrong. Strange the reverse, which, once abased,

The haughty creature proves ! He feels his soul a barren waste,

Nor dares affirm he loves.

Scorn'd by the thoughtless and the vain,

To God he presses near;
Superior to the world's disdain,

And happy in its sneer.
Oh welcome, in his heart he says,

Humility and shame!
Farewell the wish for human praise,

The music of a name !


But will not scandal mar the good

That I might else perform?
And can God work it, if he would,

By so despised a worm ?
Ah, vainly anxious !-leave the Lord

To rule thee, and dispose ;
Sweet is the mandate of his word,

And gracious all He does.

He draws from human littleness

His grandeur and renown;
And generous hearts with joy confess

The triumph all his own.

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Down then with self-exalting thoughts;

Thy faith and hope employ,
To welcome all that he allots,

And suffer shame with joy.
No longer, then, thou wilt encroach

On his eternal right;
And He shall smile at thy approach,

And make thee his delight.




UN! stay thy course, this moment stay

Suspend the o’erflowing tide of day,

Divulge not such a love as mine,
Ah! hide the mystery divine;
Lest man, who deems my glory shame,
Should learn the secret of



O Night! propitious to my views,
Thy sable awning wide diffuse;
Conceal alike my joy and pain,
Nor draw thy curtain back again,
Though Morning, by the tears she shows,
Seems to participate my woes.
Ye Stars! whose faint and feeble fires
Express my languishing desires,
Whose sender beams pervade the skies
As silent as my secret sighs,

Those emanations of a soul,
That darts her fires beyond the pole ;

Your rays, that scarce assist the sight,
That pierce, but not displace the night,
That shine indeed, but nothing show
Of all those various scenes below,
Bring no disturbance, rather

prove Incentives to a sacred love.

Thou Moon! whofe never failing course
Bespeaks a providential force,
Go, tell the tidings of my flame
To him who calls the stars by name;
Whose absence kills, whose presence cheers ;
Who blots, or brightens, all my years.
While, in the blue abyss of space,
Thine orb performs its rapid race;
Still whisper in his listening ears
The language of my sighs and tears;
Tell him, I seek him, far below,
Lost in a wilderness of woe.


Ye thought-composing, silent Hours,
Diffusing peace o'er all my powers;
Friends of the pensive! who conceal,
In darkest shades, the flames I feel;

I trust, and safely may,
The love that wastes my strength away.


In sylvan scenes, and caverns rude,
I taste the sweets of solitude;

Retired indeed, but not alone,
I share them with a Spouse unknown,
Who hides me here, from envious eyes,
From all intrusion and surprise.

Imbowering Shades, and Dens profound !
Where echo rolls the voice around;
Mountains ! whose elevated heads
A moist and misty veil o'erspreads;
Disclose a solitary bride
To him I love-to none beside.

Ye Rills ! that, murmuring all the way,
Among the polish'd pebbles stray;
Creep silently along the ground,
Lest, drawn by that harmonious sound,
Some wanderer, whom I would not meet,
Should stumble on my loved retreat.

Enameld Meads, and Hillocks green,
And Streams that water all the scene !
Ye Torrents, loud in distant ears !
Ye Fountains, that receive my tears!
Ah! still conceal, with caution due,
A charge I trust with none but you.

If, when my pain and grief increase,
I seem to enjoy the sweetest peace,
It is because I find so fair
The charming object of my care,
That I can sport and pleasure make
Of torment suffer'd for his fake.

Ye Meads and Groves, unconscious things !
Ye know not whence my pleasure springs ;
Ye know not, and ye cannot know,
The source from which


sorrows flow : The dear sole Cause of all I feel,He knows, and understands them well. Ye Deserts ! where the wild beasts rove, Scenes sacred to my hours of love ; Ye Forests ! in whose shades I stray, Benighted under burning day! Ah! whisper not how blest am I, Nor while I live, nor when I die.

Ye Lambs! who sport beneath these shades,
And bound along the mofly glades;
Be taught a salutary fear,
And cease to bleat when I am near :
The wolf


cry, Whom

ye should dread as much as I.
How calm, amid these scenes, my mind !
How perfect is the peace I find !
Oh hush, be still, my every part,
My tongue, my pulse, my beating heart!
That Love, aspiring to its cause,
May suffer not a moment's pause.
Ye swift-finn'd nations, that abide
In seas, as fathomless as wide;
And, unsuspicious of a snare,
Pursue at large your pleasures there :
Poor sportive fools ! how soon does man
Your heedless ignorance trepan!

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