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There is betwixt that smile that we aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs
and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.




THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty, Thine this universal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair,-Thyself how wond'rous,

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
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


With thy bright circlet, 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 the greater, sound His praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, 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 song resound
His praise, who out of darkness 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 still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the woods' great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers;
Rising or falling, still advance His praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters


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 ye 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;


Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or e’en,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.




Is there a spot in memory's shrine
More dear than all the rest,

Sure 'tis where those we loved, no more
By sin or grief oppress'd,

Beneath the daisied turf awhile in peace do softly


And flowers, dissolved in tears of dew, alone sweet vigils keep.

Thither at rosy morning tide,
Thither at sultry noon,

But chiefly when the evening sky

Waits for the summer moon,

When all is still, and not a leaf doth quiver in the


Thither, by paths unknown to us, sweet fancy loves to rove.



We may not trace with mortal eye The path of trackless thought, Nor ken how time and space to it Are but as things of nought; We only know it is a boon by God to mortals


That they, while pilgrims here on earth, might reach in thought e'en heaven.

A sudden pause, a word, a look, Mid those whom Death hath left us, Summons, unbid, to instant view, Friends of whom he hath reft us; Then by-gone scenes we trace again, and days live o'er again

In tearful pleasure, though the soul shrinks from the pleasing pain.

Once more we mark the well-known form
To which so oft we've clung,

Fancy we hear, as once we heard,

Sweet accents from that tongue

Now mute in death; but like a dream, anon, at

sudden wave

Of Fancy's magic rod they pass, and sink into the grave.

Lo! we are standing on the mound
Which hides the once-loved head-
Hush beating heart, 'tis holy ground,
The chambers of the dead.



Be still, vain thoughts; look up, my soul, to heaven; why wilt thou weep?

Not flowers alone, but angels, here their solemn vigil keep.

They are above thee, and around
Through all the silent air;

In life, unseen, they scan thy path,
Thy way most secret share.

In death, when mortal frame returns back to its native earth,

Still are they nigh to welcome thee to an immortal birth.



Aн, little think the gay licentious crowd,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence 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 between man and man;
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

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