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Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls! be hush'd the prostrate world!
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymo.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound: the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns;
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song
Burst from the groves! and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm
The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once, the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling base :
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in

every

sacred grove;
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the summer-ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleans,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east;
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green easth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds ludian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; ’tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic fight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go
Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suas;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable;
Cone then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

ODE

A

ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

BY MR. COLLINS.

The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to

lie on the Thames near Richmond,

IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing ware!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise

To deck its poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem, in pity's ear,

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire,

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,

And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But Thou ! who own'st that earthy bed,

Ah! what will every dirge avail ? Our tears, which love and pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail !

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scoru thy pale shrine glimm'ring near : With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,

Aud joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown's sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side,

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see! the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; Their hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress,

With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes ! 0! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,

In youder grave your Druid lies !

FINIS.

Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge.

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