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Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before:

To give thee what politer France receives

Was registered in Heaven ere time began. From nature's bounty-that humane address We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works And sweetness, without which no pleasure is Die too: the deep foundations that we lay, In converse, either starved by cold reserve,

Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl. We build with what we deem eternal rock: Yet being free I love thee: for the sake

A distant age asks where the fabric stood;
Of that one feature can be well content,

And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain,
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, The undiscoverable secret sleeps.
To seek no sublunary rest beside.
But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure
Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,

Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
Of British natures, wanting its excuse

And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, And shock me. I should then with double pain

Can wind around him, but he casts it off Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;

With as much ease as Samson his green withes, And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,

He looks abroad into the varied field For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared I would at least bewail it under skies

With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Milder, among a people less austere;

Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
In scenes, which having never known me free, His are the mountains, and the vallies his,
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.

And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
Do I forbode impossible events,

With a propriety that none can feel, And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may!

But who, with filial confidence inspired, But the age of virtuous politics is past,

Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And we are deep in that of cold pretence.

And smiling say—" My Father made them all!" Patriots are grown too sltrewd to be sincere,

Are they not his by a peculiar right, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes And by an emphasis of interest his, Deep in his soft credulity the stamp

Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Designed by loud declaimers on the part

Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,

With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love, Incurs derision for his easy faith,

That planned, and built, and still upholds, a world And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:

So clothed with beauty for rebellious man?
For when was public virtue to be found

Yes-ye may fill your garners, ye that reap
Where private was not? Can he love the whole The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good
Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend In senseless riot; but ye will not find
Who is in truth the friend of no man there?

In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause,

A liberty like bis, who, unimpeached Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, That country, if at all, must be beloved ?

Appropriates nature as his Father's work, "Tis therefore sober and good men are sad And has a richer use of yours than you. For England's glory, seeing it wax pale

He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts Of no mean city: planned or ere the hills So loose to private duty, that no brain,

Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, With all his roaring multitude of waves. Can dream them trusty to the general weal.

His freedom is the same in every state;
Such were they not of old, whose tempered blades And no condition of this changeful life,
Dispersed the shackles of usurped controul, So manifold io cares, whose every day
And hewed them link from link; then Albion's sons

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less:
Were sons indeed; they felt a filial heart
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs;

For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain,
And, shining each in his domestic sphere,

Nor pepury, can cripple or confine. Shone brighter still, once called to public view.

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there

With "Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot

and is at large. The oppressor

His body bound; but knows not what a range Forbids their interference, looking on,

His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain;
Anticipate perforce some dire event;

And that to bind him is a vain attempt
And, seeing the old castle of the state,
That promised once more firmness, so assailed
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst taste

His works. Admitted once to his embrace,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall.
All has its date below; the fatal hour

Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart

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So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth shall relish, with divine delight pure Till then unselt, what hands divine have wrought. Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious word! Brutes the mountain-top, with faces prone Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,

graze And eyes intent upon the scanty herb

With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, It yields them: or recumbent on its brow

But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread

With means,

that were not till by thee employed, Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away

Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strength From inland regions to the distant main.

Been less, or less benevolent than strong.
Man views it, and admires; but rests content They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power
With what he views. The landscape has his praise, And goodness infinite, but speak in ears
But not its author. Unconcerned who formed That hear not, or receive not their report.
The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

In vain thy creatures testify of thee,
And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more. Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed
Not so the mind, that has been touched from Heaven, A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine,
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught

That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,
To read his wonders, in whose thought the world, And with the boon gives talents for its use.
Fair as it is, existed ere it was.

Till thou art heard, imaginations vain Not for its own sake merely, but for his

Possess the heart, and fables false as hell; Much more, who fashioned it, he gives it praise ; Yet, deemed oracular, lure down to death Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought,

The quinformed and heedless souls of men.
To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,
Its only just proprietor in Him.

The glory of thy work; which yet appears
The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed Perfect and unimpeachable of blame,
New faculties, or learns at least to employ

Challenging human scrutiny, and proved
More worthily the powers she owned before; Then skilful most when most severely judged.
Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze But chance is not; or is not where thou reignest:
Of ignorance, till then she overlooked,

Thy providence forbids that fickle power A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms

(If power she be that works but to confound) Terrestrial in the vast and the minute;

To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws, The unambiguous footsteps of the God,

Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,

Instruction, and inventing to ourselves
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Gods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep,
Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds Or disregard our follies, or that sit
With those fair ministers of light to man,

Amused spectators of this bustling stage.
That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Thee we reject, unable to abide
Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure,
With which Heaven rang, when every star, in haste

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause To gratulate the new-created earth,

For which we shunned and hated thee before. Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God

Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, Shouted for joy.—" Tell me, ye shining hosts,

Breaks on the sou and by a flash from Heaven That navigate a sea that knows no storms,

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not If from your elevation, whence ye view

Till thou hast touched them; 'tis the voice of song, Distinctly scenes invisible to man,

A loud hosanna sent from all thy works; And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet

Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race

And adds his rapture to the general praise. Favoured as ours; transgressors from the womb,

In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise, Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?

The author of her beauties, who, retired As one, who long detained on foreign shores, Behind his own creation, works unseen Pants to return, and when he sees afar

By the impure, and hears his power denied. His country's weather-bleached and battered rocks, Thou art the source, and centre of all minds, From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Their only point of rest, eternal Word! Radiant with joy towards the happy land;

From thee departing they are lost, and rove
So I with animated hopes behold,

At random without honour, hope, or peace.
And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, From thee is all, that soothes the life of man,
That show like beacons in the blue abyss,

His high endeavour, and his glad success,
Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
From toilsome life to never-ending rest.

But oh, thou bounteous giver of all good,
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires,

Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!
That give assurance of their own success,

Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;
And that infused from Heaven must thither tend.” And with the rich, iałe what thou wilt away.

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And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time (root,
Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthora
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

What prodigies can power divine perform
More grand than it produces year by year,
Familiar with the effect we slight the cause,
And in the constancy of nature's course,

The regular return of genial months,


And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue

recor There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,

Without a cloud, and white without a speck And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased

The dazzling splendour of the scene below. With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;

Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; Some chord in unison with what we hear

And through the trees I view the embattled tower, Is touched within us, and the heart replies.

Whence all the music. I again perceive How soft the music of those village bells,

The soothing influence of the wafted strains, Falling at intervals upon the ear

And settle in soft musings as I tread In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!

The roof, though moveable through all its length With easy force it opens all the cells

As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard And intercepting in their silent fall

Inicht A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. And with it all its pleasures and its pains.

No noise is here, or none that binders thought. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,

The redbreast warbles still, but is content That in a few short moments I retrace

With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: (As in a map the voyager his course)

Pleased with his solitude, and fitting light The windings of my way through many years.

From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes Short as in retrospect the journey seems,

From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, It seemed not alway short; the rugged path,

That tinkle in the withered leaves below. And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. Charms more than silence. Meditation here Yet feeling present evils, while the past

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart Faintly impress the mind, or rot at all,

May give an useful lesson to the head,
How readily we wish time spent revoked,

And learning wiser grow without his books.
That we might try the ground again, where once Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive) Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells
We missed that happiness we might have found! In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
A father, whose authority, in show

Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,
When most severe, and mustering all its force, The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
Was but the graver countenance of love ;

Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,

Does but incumber whom it seems to enrich. And utter now and then an awful voice,

Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; But had a blessing in its darkest frown,

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells, We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand,

By which the magic art of shrewder wits That reared us. At a thoughtless age, allured

Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. By every gilded folly, we renounced

Some to the fascination of a name His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent

Surrender judgment, hood-winked. Some the style That converse, which we now in vain regret.

Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds How gladly would the man recall to life

Of error leads them by a tune entranced. The boy's neglected sire! a mother too,

While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,

The insupportable fatigue of thought,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed
The playful humour; he could now endure,
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)

And feel a parent's presence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure's worth,
Till time has stolen away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,

Fru And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,

12 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. The night was winter in his roughest mood;

Th The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon

A Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

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And swallowing therefore without pause or choice
The total grist unsifted, husks and all.
But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,
And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,

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Not shy, as in the world, and to be won
By slow solicitation, seize at once


And all in sight of inattentive man?

And renovation of a faded world,

The beauties of the wilderness are his, see nought to wonder at. Should God again, That make so gay the solitary place Is once in Gibeon, interrupt the race

Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, )f the undeviating and punctual sun,

That cultivation glories in, are his. low would the world admire! but speaks it less He sets the bright procession on its way, in agency divine, to make him know

And marshals all the order of the year; lis moment when to sink and when to rise,

He marks the bounds, which winter may not pass, age after age, than to arrest his course?

And blunts his pointed fury; in its case, ill we behold is miracle ; but seen

Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, o duly all is miracle in vain.

Uninjured, with inimitable art; Vhere now the vital energy that moved,

And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, Vhile summer was, the pure and subile lymph Designs the blooming wonders of the next. Through the imperceptible meandering veins

Some say that in the origin of things, Of leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touch When all creation started into birth, f unprolific winter has impressed

The infant elements received a law, I cold stagnation on the intestine tide.

From which they swerve not since. That under force But let the months go round, a few short months, Of that controlling ordinance they move, ind all shall be restored. These naked shoots, And need not his immediate hand, who first Barren as lances, among which the wind

Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,

Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God jhall put their graceful foliage on again,

The incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare Ind more aspiring, and with ampler spread, (lost. The great artificer of all that moves shall boast new charms, and more than they have The stress of a continual act, the pain Chen, each in its peculiar honours clad,

Of unremitted vigilance and care, shall publish even to the distant eye

As too laborious and severe a task. ts family and tribe. Laburnum, rich

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 11 streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure;

To span omnipotence, and measure might, The scentless and the scented rose; this red, That knows no measure, by the scanty rule And of an humbler growth, the other tall,

And standard of his own, that is to-day, And throwing up into the darkest gloom

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down.
Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, But how should matter occupy a charge
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf,

Dull as it is, and satisfy a law
That the wind severs from the broken wave; So vast in its demands, unless impelled
The lilac, various in array, now white,

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set And under pressure of some conscious cause? With purple spikes pyramidal, as if

The Lord of all, himself through all diffused, Studious of ornament, yet unresolved

Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. Which hue she most approved, she chose them all; Nature is but a name for an effect, Copious of flowers the wocdbine, pale and wan, Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, But well compensating her sickly looks

By which the mighty process is maintained, With never-cloying odours, early and late;

Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm

Slow circling ages are as transient days; Of Howers, like flies clothing her slender rods, Whose work is without labour; whose designs That scarce a leaf appears; mezerion too,

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts: Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. With blushing wreaths, investing every spray; Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,

With self-taught rites, and under various names, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloyed,

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all

And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earth The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, With tutelary goddesses and gods, The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf That were not; and commending as they would Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more To each some province, garden, field, or grove. The bright profusion of her scattered stars.

But all are under one. One spirit-His, These have been, and these shall be in their day; Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, And all this uniform and coloured scene

Rules universal nature. Not a flower Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, And flush into variety again.

Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes

In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The grand transition, that there lives and works The forms, with which he sprinkles all the earth. A soul in all things, and that soul is God.

Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds

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Worms wird theinselves into our sweetest flowers;
Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,
Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint

From touch of human lips, at best impure.

Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon Or what he views of beautiful or grand

Together, or all gambol in the shade
In nature, from the broad majestic oak

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.
To the green blade, that twinkles in the sun, Antipathies are none. No fue to man
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.

Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,
His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene

Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, Is dreary, so with him all seasons please.

To stroke his azure neck, or to receive Though winter had been none, had mau been true,

The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. And earth be punished for its tenant's sake,

All creatures worship man, and all mankind Yet not in vengeance: as this smiling sky,

One Lord, one Father. Error has no place:
So soon succeeding such an angry night,

That creeping pestilence is driven away;
And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart
Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.

No passion touches a discordant string,
But all is harmony and love. Disease

Is not; the pure and uncontaminate blood

Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. The groans of nature in this nether world,

One song employs all nations; and all cry, Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. • Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' Jamp,

Shout to each other, and the mountain tops The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes. From distant mountains catch the flying joy; Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Till nation after nation taught the strain, Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course

Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. Over a sinful world; and what remains

Benold the measure of the promise filled; Of this tempestuous state of human things,

See Salem built, the labour of a God! Is merely as the working of a sea

Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest :

All kingdoms and all princes of the earth For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds Flock to that light; the glory of all lands The dust, that waits upon his sultry march,

Flows into her; unbounded is her joy, When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Shall visit earth in mercy; sball descend

Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; Propitious in his chariot paved with love;

The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And what his storms have blasted and defaced And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch:

Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Nor can the wonders it records be sung

Kneels with the native of the farthest west; To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand, But when a poet, or when one like me,

And worships. Her report has travelled forth Happy to rove among poetic flowers,

Into all lands. From every clime they come Though poor in skill 10 rear them, lights at last

To see thy beauty and to share thy joy.
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,

O Sion! an assembly such as earth
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels
To give it praise proportioned to its worth,
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still,

Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,
And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field
Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,
Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.
The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring,
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,
For there is none to covet, all are full.
The lion, and the libbard, and the bear

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Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were
Perfect, and all must be at length restored. [once
So God has greatly purposed; who would else
In his dishonoured works himself endure
Dishonour, and be wronged without redress.
Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world,
Ye slow-revolving seasons ! we would see
(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)
A world, that does not dread and hate his laws,
And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair
The creature is that God pronounces good,
How pleasant in itself what pleases him.
Here every drop of honey hides a sting;

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some poor heart

And ev'n the joy, that haply

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