Arise, ye tenants of the silent grave,
Awake, ye incorruptible, arise."

'Tis then, not sooner, that the restless mind
Shall find itself at home: and like the ark

Fixed on the mountain-top, shall look aloft,

O'er the vague passage of precarious life;

And winds, and waves, and rocks, and tempests past,
Enjoy the everlasting calm of heaven:

'Tis then, not sooner, that the deathless soul
Shall justly know its nature, and its rise:

'Tis then the human tongue, new-tuned, shall give
Praises more worthy the Eternal ear.

Yet what we can we ought;-and therefore Thou,
Purge Thou my heart, omnipotent and good!
Purge Thou my heart with hyssop, lest, like Cain,
I offer fruitless sacrifice, and with gifts
Offend, and not propitiate the Adored.

Though Gratitude were blest with all the powers
Her bursting heart could long for; though the swift,
The fiery-winged imagination, soared

Beyond Ambition's wish-yet all were vain

To speak Him as He is, who is ineffable.
Yet still let Reason, through the eye of Faith,

View Him with fearful love; let Truth pronounce,

And Adoration on her bended knee,
With heaven-directed hands, confess his reign,

And let th' angelic archangelic band,

With all the hosts of heaven, cherubic forms,
And forms seraphic, with their silver trumps
And golden lyres attend; "For Thou art holy,
For Thou art one, th' Eternal, who alone
Exerts all goodness, and transcends all praise."

IMMENSITY OF GOD.

ONCE more I dare to rouse the sounding string,
The Poet of my God.-Awake, my glory,
Awake, my lute and harp-myself shall wake,
Soon as the stately night-exploring bird,

In lively lay, sings welcome to the dawn.
List ye! how nature, with ten thousand tongues,
Begins the grand thanksgiving. Hail, all hail,
Ye tenants of the forest and the field!
My fellow-subjects of th' Eternal King,
I gladly join your matins, and with you
Confess his presence, and report his praise.
O Thou, who or the lambkin or the dove,
When offered by the lowly, meek, and poor,
Prefer'st to pride's whole hecatomb, accept
This mean essay, nor from thy treasure-house
Of glory immense the orphan's mite exclude.

What, though th' Almighty's regal throne be raised High o'er you azure heaven's exalted dome,

By mortal eye unkenned-where east, nor west,

Nor south, nor blustering north, has breath to blow;
Albeit He there with angels and with saints
Holds conference, and to his radiant host,
E'en face to face, stands visibly confest;
Yet know that nor in presence or in power

Shines He less perfect here; 'tis man's dim eye
That makes the obscurity. He is the same,
Alike in all his universe the same;

Whether the mind along the spangled sky

Measures her pathless walk, studious to view

The works of vaster fabric, where the planets

Weave their harmonious rounds, their march directing
Still faithful, still inconstant to the sun;
Or where the comet, through space infinite,

(Though whirling worlds oppose in globes of fire)

Darts like a javelin to his distant goal;

Or where in heaven above, the heaven of heavens,

Burn brighter suns, and goodlier planets roll,
With satellites more glorious,-Thou art there.
Or whether on the ocean's boisterous rock,
Thou ride triumphant, and with outstretched arm
Curb the wild winds and discipline the billows,
The suppliant sailor finds Thee there, his chief,
His only help. When Thou rebuk'st the storm
It ceases; and the vessel gently glides
Along the glassy level of the calm.

Oh! could I search the bosom of the sea,

Down the great depth descending; there thy works
Would also speak thy residence, and there
Would I, thy servant, like the still profound,
Astonished into silence, muse thy praise.
Behold! behold th' unplanted garden round

Of vegetable coral! sea-flowers gay,

And shrubs of amber, from the pearl-paved bottom
Rise richly varied, where the finny race,

In blithe security, their gambols play;
While high above their heads Leviathan,
The terror and the glory of the main,

His pastime takes, with transport proud to see

The ocean's vast dominion all his own.

Hence through the genial bowels of the earth,
Easy may fancy pass; till at thy mines,
Gani or Raolconda, she arrive,
And from the adamant's imperial blaze
Form weak ideas of her Maker's glory.
Next to Pegu or Ceylon let me rove,
Where the rich ruby (deemed by sages old
Of sovereign virtue) sparkles e'en like Sirius,
And blushes into flames. Thence will I go
To undermine the treasure-fertile womb
Of the huge Pyrenean, to detect

The agate, and the deep intrenched gem
Of kindred jasper; nature in them both
Delights to play the mimic on herself;
And in their veins she oft portrays the forms

Of leaning hills, of trees erect, and streams
Now stealing softly o'er, now thundering down
In desperate cascade, with flowers and beasts,
And all the living landscape of the vale:
In vain thy pencil, Claudio, or Poussin,
Or thine, immortal Guido, would essay
Such skill to imitate; it is the hand

Of God Himself, for God Himself is there.
Hence with the ascending springs let me advance,
Through beds of magnets, minerals, and spar;
Up to the mountain's summit, there t' indulge
The ambition of the comprehensive eye,
That dares to call the horizon all her own.
Behold the forest and the expansive verdure
Of yonder level lawn, whose smooth shorn sod
No object interrupts; unless the oak
His lordly head uprears, and branching arms
Extends. Behold in regal solitude

And pastoral magnificence he stands,
So simple and so great, the underwood,

Of meaner rank, an awful distance keep.
Yet Thou art there, yet God Himself is there,
Even on the bush, (though not as when to Moses
He shone in burning majesty revealed,)
Nathless conspicuous in the linnet's throat
Is his unbounded goodness. Thee her maker,
Thee her preserver, chants she in her song;
While all the emulative vocal tribe
The grateful lesson learn. No other voice
Is heard, no other sound-for in attention
Buried, even babbling echo holds her peace.

Now from the plains where the unbounded prospect Gives liberty her utmost scope to range;

Turn we to yon inclosures, where appears

Chequered variety in all her forms

Which the vague mind attract, and still suspend
With sweet perplexity. What are yon towers,

The work of labouring men and clumsy art,

Seen with the ringdove's nest? On that tall beech
Her pensile house the feathered artist builds,
The rocking winds molest her not; for see
With such due poise the wondrous fabric's hung,
That, like the compass in the bark, it keeps
True to itself, and stedfast e'en in storms.
Thou idiot, that asserts there is no God,
View and be dumb for ever.

Go, bid Vitruvius or Palladio build

The bee his mansion, or the ant her cave.
Go, call Correggio, or let Titian come

To paint the hawthorn's bloom, or teach the cherry
To blush with just vermilion. Hence, away!
Hence, ye profane! for God himself is here.
Vain were the attempt, and impious, to trace
Through all his works th' Artificer Divine.
And though nor shining sun nor twinkling star
Bedecked the crimson curtains of the sky;
Though neither vegetable, beast, nor bird,
Were extant on the surface of the ball,

Nor lurking gem beneath; though the great sea
Slept in profound stagnation, and the air
Had left no thunder to pronounce its Maker;
Yet man, at home within himself, might find

The Deity immense, and in that frame,

So fearfully, so wonderfully made,

See and adore his providence and power.

I see and I adore;-O God, most bounteous!

Oh! infinite of goodness and of glory,

The knee that Thou hast shaped shall bend to Thee!

The tongue which Thou hast tuned shall chant thy praise

And thine own image, the immortal soul,

Shall consecrate herself to Thee for ever.