Sun, Moon, and Stars, praise ye the LORD.

FAIREST of all the lights above,

Thou fun, whofe beams adorn the spheres, And with unweary'd fwiftnefs move,

To form the circles of our years;

Praife the Creator of the skies,

That drefs'd thine orb in golden rays;
Or may the fun forget to rife,
If he forget his Maker's praise.

Thou reigning beauty of the night,
Fair queen of filence, filver moon,
Whofe gentle beams and borrow'd light
Are fofter rivals of the noon;

Arife, and to that Sovereign Power
Waxing and waning honours pay,
Who bade thee rule the dufky hour,
And half supply the absent day.

Ye twinkling stars, who gild the skies
When darkness has its curtains drawn,
Who keep your watch, with wakeful eyes,
When bufinefs, cares, and day, are gone:

Proclaim the glories of your Lord,
Difpers'd through all the heavenly street,
Whofe boundlef's treasures can afford
So rich a pavement for his feet.

Thou

Thou heaven of heavens, fupremely bright,

Fair palace of the court divine,

Where, with inimitable light,

The Godhead condefcends to fhine;

Praife thou thy great Inhabitant,
Who fcatters lovely beams of grace
On every angel, every faint,
Nor veils the luftre of his face.

O God of Glory, God of Love,
Thou art the fun that makes our days:
With all thy fhining works above,
Let earth and duft attempt thy praise.

THE WELCOME MESSENGER.

LORD, when we fee a faint of thine
Lie gafping out his breath,

With longing eyes, and looks divine,
Smiling and pleas'd in death;

How we could ev'n contend to lay

Our limbs upon that bed!

We ask thine envoy to convey
Our fpirits in his stead.

Our fouls are rifing on the wing,

To venture in his place;

For when grim death has lost his fting,

He has an angel's face.

Jefus,

Jefus, then, purge my crimes

'Tis guilt creates my fears,

away,

'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array,
And all the arms it bears.

Oh! if my threatening fins were gone,
And death had loft his fting,

I could invite the angel on,
And chide his lazy wing.

Away these interpofing days,
And let the lovers meet;
The angel has a cold embrace,

But kind, and foft, and fweet.

I'd leap at once my feventy years,
I'd rush into his arms,

And lofe my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst thofe heavenly charms.

Joyful I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay,
Without a figh, without a groan,
And ftretch and foar away.

A

SINCERE PRAISE.

LMIGHTY Maker, God!
How wondrous is thy name!

Thy glories how diffus'd abroad

Through the creation's frame!

Nature

Nature in every drefs

Her humble homage pays,

And finds a thousand ways t' express

Thine undiffembled praise.

In native white and red

The rofe and lily stand,

And, free from pride, their beauties spread,

To fhew thy skilful hand.

The lark mounts up the sky,
With unambitious fong,

And bears her Maker's praise on high

Upon her artless tongue.

My foul would rife and fing

To her Creator too,

Fain would my tongue adore my King,

And pay the worship due.

But pride, that bufy fin,

Spoils all that I perform ;

Curs'd pride, that creeps fecurely in,

And fwells a haughty worm.

Thy glories I abate,

Or praise thee with defign; Some of the favours I forget, Or think the merit mine.

The very fongs I frame

Are faithlefs to thy cause,

And fteal the honours of thy name

To build their own applause.

Create

Create my foul anew,

Elfe all my worship 's vain;

This wretched heart will ne'er be true,

Until 'tis form'd again.

Defcend, celeftial fire,

And feize me from above; Melt me in flames of pure defire, A facrifice to love.

Let joy and worship spend

The remnant of my days,

And to my God, my foul, afcend,
In fweet perfumes of praise.

TRUE LEARNING.

Partly imitated from a French Sonnet of Mr. Poiret.

HAPPY the feet that shining Truth has led

With her own hand to tread the path the pleafe, To fee her native luftre round her spread, Without a veil, without a fhade,

All beauty, and all light, as in herself the is.

Our fenfes cheat us with, the preffing crowds

Of painted shapes they thruft upon the mind:
The truth they thew lies wrap'd in sevenfold shrouds,

Our fenfes caft a thousand clouds

On unenlighten'd fouls, and leave them doubly blind.

I hate