Page images

When in the flipp'ry paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,

Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe,

And led me up to man.

Thro' hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way,

And through the pleafing fnares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they.

When worn with fickness, oft haft thou
With health renew'd my face,

And when in fins and sorrows funk,
Reviv'd my foul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o'er,

And in a kind and faithful friend.
Has doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ,

Nor is the leaft a chearful heart,
That taftes those gifts with joy.

Thro' every period of my life
Thy goodness I'll purfue;

And after death in distant worlds

The glorious theme renew.

D 6


When nature fails, and day and night

Divide thy works no more,

My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy fhall adore.

Thro' all eternity to thee
A joyful fong I'll raise,
For oh! eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.



HE fpacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a fhining frame,

Their great original proclaim;

Th' unwearied fun, from day to day,

Does his creator's pow'r display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as th' ev'ning fhades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the lift'ning earth
Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilft all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.



What thou, in folemn filence, all
Move round the dark terreftrial ball?
What tho' nor real voice nor found
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever finging, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."



In midnight darkness, whisper'd my laft figh.

I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms :
Nor writ her name, whose tomb fhould pierce the skies.
Prefumptuous fear! how durft I dread her foes,

While nature's loudest dictates I obey'd?
Pardon neceffity, bleft shade! Of grief
And indignation rival burfts I pour'd;
Half-execration mingled with my pray'r ;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd,
Sore-grudg'd the favage land her facred duft;
Stampt the curft foil; and with humanity
(Depy'd Narciffa) wifh'd them all a grave.
Glows my refentment into guilt? what guilt
Can equal violations of the dead?

The dead how facred! facred is the duft
Of this heav'n-labour'd form, erect, divine!
This heav'n-affum'd majestic robe of earth,
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse
With azure bright, and cloath'd the fun in gold.
When every paffion fleeps that can offend;
When strikes us ev'ry motive that can melt ;
When man can wreak his rancour uncontroul'd,
That strongest curb on infult and ill-will;
Then, fpleen to duft? the duft of innocence?
An angel's duft!—this Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the patriarch's bones,
"Twas not the strife of malice, but of pride;
The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall,


Far less than this is shocking in a race

Moft wretched, but from streams of mutual love;

And uncreated, but for love divine;

And, but for love divine, this moment, loft,
By fate reforb'd, and funk in endless night.
Man hard of heart to man! of horrid things
Moft horrid! 'mid ftupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his courtefies are fmoother wrongs;
Pride brandishes the favours he confers,
And contumelious his humanity:

What then his vengeance? hear it not, ye stars!
And thou, pale moon! turn paler at the found;
Man is to man the foreft, fureft, ill.

A previous blaft foretels the rifing storm;
O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcanos bellow ere they difembogue;
Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour;.
And smoke betrays the wide-confuming fire:
Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near,
And fends the dreadful tidings in the blow.
Is this the flight of fancy? would it were!
Heav'n's Sov'reign faves all beings but himfelf,
That hideous fight, a naked human heart.

Fir'd is the mufe? and let the muse be fir'd:
Who not inflam'd, when what he fpeaks, he feels,
And in the nerve most tender, in his friends?
Shame to mankind! Philander had his foes;
He felt the truths I fing, and I in him.

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »