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Shade, unperceiv'd, so softning into Thade ;
And all so forming an harmonious whole;
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wand'ring oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not Theę, marks not the mighty hand,
That, ever-busy, wheels the filent spheres ;
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'er-spreads the Spring i
Flings from the sun direct the Aaming day;
Feeds ev'ry creature ; hurls the tempest forth;
And as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend ! join every living roul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and, ardent, raise
One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes :
Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms,
Where o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe!
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heav'n
Th’impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; i And let me catch it as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;
Ye fofter foods that lead the humid maze
Along the yale ; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall,
Sofi roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him ;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heav'n, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the filver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write, with every beam, His praise.
The thunder rolls: be hush'd the proftrate world ;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye moffy rocks,
Retain the sound : the broad responsive lowe.
Ye vallies, rise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns :
And His unsuff'ring kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all awake! a boundless fong
Burst from the groves! and when the restlefs day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm
'The list’ning shades, and teach the night his praife.
Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation (miles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vaft,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At folemn pauses, through the swelling base;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.

Or if you rather chuse the rural shade,
And find a fane in ev'ry sacred grove;

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, ; The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Still fing the God of Seasons as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows; the Summer ray
Ruflets the plain; inspiring Autumn gleams ;
Or Winter rises in the black’ning east;
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Should Fate command me to the furtheft verge
Of the green carth, to distant barb'rous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on th’ Atlantic isles : 'tis nought to me :
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the wide waste, as in the city full ;
And where he vital breathes, there must be joy,
When e'en at last the folemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic Aight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders fing. I cannot go,
Where universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their fons :
From seeming evil ftill educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in LIGHT INEFFABLE !
Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.

A PARAPHRASE ON THE LATTER PART OF MATT. VI. WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care, And o'er my cheek defcends the falling tear ; While all my warring paffions are at strife, O let me liften to the words of life! Raptures deep-felt His doctrine did impart, And thus He rais'd from earth the drooping heart.

Think not, when all your scanty stores afford Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears ; While on the roof the howling tempeft bears ; What further shall this feeble life sustain, And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again. Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? And the fair body its investing weed ? Behold! and look away your low despair ; See the bright tenants of the barren air : To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong; Nought but the woodland, and the pleasing song: Yet, your kind heavonly Father bends his eye On the least wing that fits beneath the sky. To Him they fing, when spring renews the plain, To Him they cry, in winter's pinching reign; Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain : He hears the gay, and the distressful call, And with unfparing bounty fills them all.

Observe the rising lily's snowy grace, Observe the various vegetable race; They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow, Yet see how warm they blych ! how bright they glow!

What regal vestments can with them compare !
What king so shining, or what queen so fair !

If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heav'n He feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes He spreads ;
Will He not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is He unwise ? or, are ye less than they?

ODE ON EOLUS'S HARP. ETHEREAL Race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid !

With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from che hand of some unhappy maid,

Who dy'd of love those sweet complainings part.. But hark! that strain was of a graver tone;

On the deep ftrings his hand Tome hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard t, who sat alone,

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such fadly folemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to footh a dying saint. Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Thro' heav'n's high dome their awful anthem raises Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To Swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise,

of The prophet Jeremiahe

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