Nor less the mystic characters I see

Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing turn. Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib'd on ev'ry tree: Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps,

In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;

With thee in shady solitudes I walk

in the

With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In ev'ry creature own thy forming pow'r,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control.
Thus shall I rest unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arins,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent
Then, when the last, the closing hour drawsnigh,
And earth recedes before my swim ming eve;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state;
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
Aud, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die.

§ 54. A Summer Evening's Meditation.
Mrs. Barbauld.
One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine.
YOUNG.

'Tis past! the sultry tyrant of the south
Has spent his short-liv'd rage: more grateful
hours

Meve silent on: the skies no more repel
The dazzled sight; but, with mild maiden beanis
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns,
Impatient for the night, and seems to púslı
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines,
Ev'n in the eye of day; with sweetest beam
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace; while mecken'd Eve,
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires
Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west,

And shuts the gates of day. "Tis now the hour
When Comtemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Of unpiere'd woods, were wrapt in silent shade,
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon,
And fed on thoughts unripenn'd by the sun,
Moves forward; and with radiant finger points
To you blue concave swell'd by breath divine,
Where, one by one, the living eves of heaven
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of æther
One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling

fires,

And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye,
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd
O'er all this field of glories: spacious field,
And worthy of the master: he whose hand,
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile,
Inscrib'd the mystic tablet; hung on high
To public grace; and said, Adore, O man,
The finger of thy God! From what pure wells

For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path and light us to ou home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres !
And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil
Their destin'd courses: Nature's self is hush'd,
And, but a scatter'd leaf which rustles thro'
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air; tho' the rais'd ear,
Intensely list'ning, drinks in ev'ry breath.
How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise!
But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in ev'ry star that talks with man,
And woos him to be wise? nor woos in vain.
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars..
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo God; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun
(Fair transitory creature of a day)

Has clos'd his goklen eye, and wrapt in shades,
Forgets his wonted journey thro' the east.

Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods!
Perhaps iny future home, from whence the soul,
Revolving periods past, mmy oft look back,
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events,
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours - Obe it lawful now

To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And with mute wonder and delighted awe
Approach your burning confines! - Seis'd in
On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail [thought,
From the green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant!
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons,
Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exil'd monarch: fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear,
Of elder beam; which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day;
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And only less than him who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen
Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The desarts of creation, wide and wild,
Where

embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But, oli thou mighty Mind! whose pow'rful word

E3

Said,

1

In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, But thou O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd
Invoke thy dread perfection?
Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support thy throne! O look with pity down
On erring, guilty man! not in thy names
Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd
The scatter'd tribes! Thou hast a gentler voice
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.

But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her pow'rs
In flights so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again the known accustom'd spot,
Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and
A inansion fair and spacious forits guest, [streams;
And full replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait the appointed time,
And ripen for the skies; the hour will come
When all these splendors bursting on my sight
Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown.

natura beatos

§ 55. Hymn to Content. Mrs. Barbauld.
Omnibus esse decit, si quis cognoverit uti. CLAUD.
O THOU, the Nymphr with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow.
Not all the storins that shake the pole,
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow,
O come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdu'd delight.
No more by varying passions be
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.

There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide
The temp'rate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;

And patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phyrgian sage
A tyrant's master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day :
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And ev'ry storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whisp'ring thro' the shade.

§56. To Wisdom. Mrs. Barbauld.
Dona præsentis rape laetus horæ, ac
Linque severa.

O WISDOM! if thy soft control
Can sooth the sickness of the soul,
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace;
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

HORAT.

But if thou com'st with frown austere
To nurse the brood of care and fear;
To bid our sweetest passions die,
And leave us in their room a sigh?
Or if thine aspect stern have pow'r
To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow;
Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell,
But never haunt my cheerful. cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child!
Hope with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith and fond surprise!
Let these, in fairy colors drest,
For ever share my careless breast :
Then, thơ' wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

without number;

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,

Nor provide against dangers in time:
When death or old age shall stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of mydays,
If I trifle away all their prime!

Now, now, while my strength and my youth are
in bloom,
[shall come,
Let me think what will serve me when sickness
And that my sins be forgiven:
That, when death turns me out of this cottage
I may dwell in a palace in heaven. [of clay,

And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Let me read in good books, and believe and obey,

walks about sauntring, or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader andhigher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
Andhis moneystill wastes, till he starvesorhe begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talk'dof eating & drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible, and
never loves

thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me;
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my
[reading!"

breeding,

Who taught me betimes to love working and

§ 61. The Rose. Watts.

How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flow'r!
The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flow'rs of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colors are
[lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Tho' they bloom and look gay like the rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;

Time kills them as fast as he goes,

Then I'll not be proud of iny youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well doing my duty :
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

§62. The Ant, or Emmet. Watts.

THESE Emmets, how little they are in our eyes!
We tread thein to dust, and a troop of them

dies,

Without our regard or concern :

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school,
There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.
They don't wear their time out in sleepingorplay,
But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day,

And for winter they lay up their stores:
They manage their work in such regular forms,
One would think they foresaw all the frosts and

the storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

§ 63. A Summer Evening, Watts.

How fine has the day been, how bright was
the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course thathe run,
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there follow'd some droppings of rain!
But now the fair traveller's come to the west,
Ilis rays all are gold, and his beauties are hest;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

And foretels a bright rising again.
Just such is the Christian: his course he begins
Like the sun in a inist, when he mournsforhissins,
And inelts into tears; then he breaks out & shines,

And travels his heavenly way:
But, when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days
Of rising in brighter array!

§ 64. The Nunc Dimitis. Merrick.

'Tis enough-the hour is come:
Now within the silent tomb

Let this mortal frame decay,
Since thy mercies, oft of old
Mingled with its kindred clay;
By thy chosen seers foretold,
Faithful now and stedfast prove,
God of truth, and God of love!
Since at length my aged eye
Sees the day-spring from on high!
Son of righteousness, to thee,

Lo! the nations bow the knee;

And the realms of distant kings
Those whom death had overspread
Own the healing of thy wings.
With his dark and dreary shade,
Lift their eyes, and from afar
Waiting till the promis'd ray
Hail the light of Jacob's Star;
Turn their darkness into day.
Shine o'er Sion's favor'd head!
See the beams intensely shed,
Never may they hence remore,
God of truth and God of love!

$65. The Benedicite paraphrased. Merrick.

Ye works of God, on him alone,

In earth his footstool, heav'n his throne,

Be all your praise bestow'd;
Whose hand the beauteous fabric made,
1 Whose eye the finish'd work survey'd,
And saw that all was good.
Ye angels, that with loud acclaim
Admiring view'd the new-born frame,
And hail'd the Eternal King,
Again proclaim your Maker's praise,
Again your thankful voices raise,

And touch the tuneful string.
Praise him, ye blest æthereal plains,
Where, in full majesty, he deigns
To fix his awful throne:

Ye waters that above him roll,
From orb to orb, from pole to pole,
O make his praises known!
Ye thrones, dominions, virtues, pow'rs,
Join ye your joyful songs with ours;
With us your voices raise!
From age to age extend the lay,
To Heaven's Eternal Monarch pay
Hymns of eternal praise.
Celestial orb! whose powerful ray
Opes the glad eyelids of the day,

Whose influence all things own;
Praise him, whose courts effulgent shine
With light as far excelling thine,

As thine the paler moon.
Ye glitt'ring planets of the sky,
Whose lamps the absent sun supply,
With him the song pursue;
And let himself submissive own,
He borrows from a brighter Sun
The light he lends to you.

Ye show'rs and dews, whose moisture shed
Calls into life the op'ning seed,

To him your praises yield,
Whose influence wakes the genial birth,
Drops fatness on the pregnant earth,

And crowns the laughing field.
Ye winds, that oft tempestuous sweep
The ruilled surface of the deep,

With us confess your God;
Sethro the heav'ns the King of kings,
Upborne on your expanded wings,
Come flying all abroad.

Ye floods of fire, where'er ye flow,
With just submission humbly bow
To his superior pow'r,
Who stops the tempest on its way,
Or bids the flaming deluge stray,

And gives its strength to roar.
Ye summer's heat, and winter's cold,
By turns in long succession roll'd,
The drooping world to cheer,
Praise him who gave the sun and moon
To lead the various seasons on,

And guide the circling year.

Ye frosts, that bind the wat'ry plain,
Ye silent show'rs of fleecy rain,

Pursue the heav'nly theme;
Praise hirm who sheds the driving snow,
Forbids the harden'd waves to flow,
And stops the rapid stream.

Ye days and nights, that swiftly borne
From morn to eve, from eve to morn,
Alternate glide away,
Praise him, whose never-varying light,
Absent, adds horror to the night,
But, present, gives the day.

Light, from whose rays all beauty springs;
Darkness, whose wide-expanded wings

Involve the dusky globe;
Praise him who, when the heav'ns he spread,
Darkness his thick pavilion made,

And light his regal robe,
Praise him, ye lightnings, as ye Ay
Wing'd with his vengeance thro' the sky,
And red with wrath divine;
Praise him, ye clouds that wand'ring stray.
Or, fix'd by him, in close array.
Surround his awful shrine.

Exalt, O Earth! thy Heav'nly King,
Who bids the plants that form the spring
With annual verdure bloom;
Whose frequent drops of kindly rain,
Prolific swell the rip'ning grain,

And bless thy fertile womb.

Ye mountains, that ambitious rise,
And heave your summits to the skies,
Revere his awfuł nod;
Think how you once affrighted fled;
When Jordan sought his fountain-head,
And own'd the approaching God.

Ye trees, that fill the rural scene;
Ye flow'rs, that o'er the enamell'd green
In native beauty reign;
O praise the Ruler of the skies,
Whose hand the genial sap supplies,
And clothes the smiling plain.

Ye secret springs, ye gentle rills,
That murm'ring rise among the hills,
Or fill the humble vale;
Praise him, at whose Almighty nod
The rugged rock dissolving flow'd,
And form'd a springing well.
Praise him, ye floods, and seas profound.
Whose waves the spacious earth surround,
And roll from shore to shore,
Aw'd by his voice, ye seas, subside;
Ye floods within your channels glide,
And tremble and adore.

Ye whales, that stir the boiling decp,
Or in its dark recesses sleep,

Remote from human eye,
Praise him by whom ye all are fed;
Praise him, without whose heavenly aid
Ye languish, faint, and die.

Ye