The confcious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rife, the focial figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual blifs,
Refining ftill, the focial Passions work.
THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this univerfal frame,
Thús wond'rous fair; thyfelf how wond'rous then!
Unfpeakable, who fitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly feen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with fongs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, Him last, Him midft, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the fmiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arifes, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world, both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, found his praife.
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'ft.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st,
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without fong, refound
His praife, who out of darknefs call'd up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great MAKER ftill new praife.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rife
From hill or fteaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd iky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rifing or falling still advance his praife.
His praife, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every plant in fign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls; ye Birds,
That finging up to heav'n's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praife.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my fong, and taught his praise.
Hail, UNIVERSAL LORD! be bounteous ftill
To give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
PROMISCUOUS AND MIXED PIECES.
O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O feldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temp'rate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon foul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in fimplest vest array'd,
With all thy fober cheer display'd,
To bless my longing fight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdu'd delight.
No more by varying pafsions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in fome pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy foft indulgent eye,
The modeft 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
There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide
The temperate Joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy fister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek,
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian fage
A tyrant master's wanton rage,
With fettled fmiles, to meet:
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek fubmitted head,
And kiss'd thy fainted feet.
But thou, Oh Nymph retir'd and coy!
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.
O fay what foft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
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 fuch an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy foothing voice,
Low whifp'ring through the shade.
The Shepherd and the Philosopher.
REMOTE from cities liv'd a fwain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;
His head was filver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him fage;
In fummer's heat, and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew:
His wifdom and his honeft fame
Through all the country rais'd his name.
A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools).
The shepherd's homely cottage fought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
"Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books confum'd the midnight oil?
Haft thou old Greece and Rome furvey'd,
And the vaft fenfe of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy foul refin'd,
And haft thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wife Ulyffes, thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown,
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