« ПредишнаНапред »
When in the flipp'ry paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe,
And led me up to man.
Thro' hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way,
And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear’d than they.
When worn with sickness, oft halt thou
With health renew'd
face, And when in fins and sorrows sunk,
Reviv'd my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o'er, And in a kind and faithful friend
Has doubled all my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious giftş
My daily thanks employ,
Nor is the least a chearful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Thro' every period of my life
Thy goodness I'll pursue ;
And after death in diftant worlds
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore,
Thro' all eternity to thee
A joyful song I'll raise, For oh! eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.
HE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim;
Th' unwearied fun, from day to day,
Does his creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.
Soon as th' ev'ning shades prevail, The moon takes
the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the liftning earth
Repeats the story of her birth :
Whilft all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What thou, in folemn filence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ?
What thonor real voice nor found
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
• The band that made us is divine.”
In midnight darkness, whisper'd my laft figh.
I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms :
Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the skies.
Presumptuous fear ! how durft I dread her foes,
While nature's loudeit dictates I obey'd ?
Pardon necefsity, bleft shade! Of grief
And indignation rival bursts I pour'd;
Half-execration mingled with my pray'r ;
Kindled at man, while I his God ador’ds
Sore-grudg’d the favage land her sacred dust;
Stampt the curst foil; and with humanity
(Depy'd Narcissa) wish'd them all a grave.
Glows my resentment into guilt? what guilt
Can equal violations of the dead?
The dead how facred! facred is the dust
Of this heav'n-labour'd form, erect, divine!
This heav'n-affum'd majetic robe of earth,
He deign'd to wear, who hung the vast expanse
With azure bright, and cloath'd the sun in gold.
When every passion sleeps that can offend;
When strikes us ev'ry motive that can melt;
When man can wreak his rancour uncontroul'd,
That strongest curb on insult and ill-will;
Then, spleen to dust? the dust of innocence ?
An angel's duft!-this Lucifer transcends;
When he contended for the patriarch’s bones,
'Twas not the strife of malice, but of pride;
The strife of pontiff pride, not pontiff gall,
Far less than this is shocking in a race
Moft wretched, but from streams of mutual love ;
And uncreate, but for love divine;
And, but for love divine, this moment, loft,
By fate resorb’d, and funk in endless night.
Man hard of heart to man! of horrid things
Most horrid ! 'mid ftupendous, highly strange!
Yet oft his courtesies are smoother wrongs;
Pride brandines the favours he confers,
And contumelious his humanity:
What then his veageance? hear it not, ye stars !
And thou, pale moon! turn paler at the found;
Man is to man the forest, surest, ill.
A previous blast foretels the rising storm;
O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall;
Volcanos bellow ere they disembogue ;
Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour ;
And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire:
Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near,
And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow.
Is this the flight of fancy? would it were !
Heav'n's Sov'reign faves all beings but himfelf,
That hideous fight, a naked human heart.
Fir'd is the muse! and let the muse be fir'd:
Who not infiam'd, when what he speaks, he feels,
And in the nerve most tender, in his friends ?
Shame to mankind! Philander had his foes ;
He felt the truths I fing, and I in him.