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Smooth'd up with snow; and what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 4 These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 5 In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingled storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wise, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
6 Ah, little think the gay licentious proud,
· Whom pleasures, pow'r, and atiluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain!
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame! How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
7 How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse! .
% How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the death-hed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Thought, fond man,
Of these, and all the thousand pameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suflering, and of fate.
Vice in his high career would stand appall’d,
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss
Refining still, the social passions work.--THOMSON.
A morning hymn.
| These are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wondrous then !
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lower works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine. 2 Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
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 midst, 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 smiling morn
With thy bright circiet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when ligh noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 3 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st,
With the fix'd sinys, find in their orb that flies;
And ye five other vandring fires that move
In nuvstic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ve 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 still new praise.
4 Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 5 His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ve flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 6 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, UNIVERSAL LORD! be bounteous still
T'e give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceald,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.--MUTON.
· SECTION I.
Ode to content.
10 thou, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temprate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole,
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth. unalter'd baw.
° 0 come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy soher cheer display'd,
To hless 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 beat,
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.
4 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. , 5 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,
i To meet the offer'd blow.
6 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant 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.
But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale ?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Dloss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
8 0 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?
9 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 through the shade.--PARBAULI.
. SECTION II.
The shepherd and the philosopher., - 1 Remote from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him saga;
In summer'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 wisdom and his honest famie,
Through all the country, rais'd his name.
2 A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.
" Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ?
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown,
By various fates, on realns unknown,
Hast thou through mapy cities stray'd
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd ?" 3 The shepherd modestly replied,
• I ne'er the paths of learning tried ;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise;
He cheats the most discerning (yes.
Who by that search shall wiser grow?
By that ourselves we never know,
The little knowledge I have gainil,