And every fenfe, and every heart is joy.
Then comes thy Glory in the Summer-months,
With light, and heat, severe. Prone, then thy Sun
Shoots full perfection thro' the fwelling year.
And oft thy voice in awful Thunder speaks;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales,
A yellow-floating pomp, thy Bounty shines
In Autumn unconfin'd. Thrown from thy lap,
Profufe o'er nature, falls the lucid shower
Of beamy fruits; and, in a radiant stream,
Into the ftores of steril Winter pours.
In Winter dreadful Thou! with clouds and ftorms
Around Thee thrown, tempeft o'er tempeft roll'd,
Horrible blackness! On the whirlwind's wing,
Riding fublime, Thou bid'ft the world below,
And humbleft nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep-felt, in these appear! a fimple train,
Yet fo harmonious mixt, fo fitly join'd,
One following one in fuch inchanting fort,
Shade, unperceiv'd, fo foftening into shade,
And all fo forming fuch a perfect whole,
That, as they ftill fucceed, they ravish ftill
But vandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks Thee not, marks not the mighty hand,
That, ever-bufy, wheels the filent spheres ;
Works in the fecret deep; fhoots, teaming, thence
The fair profufion that o'erfpreads the Spring;
Flings from the fun direct the flaming Day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the Tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend; join every living foul, Beneath the fpacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and ardent, raise
An univerfal Hymn! to Him, ye gales,
Breathe foft; whofe fpirit teaches you to breathe.
Oh talk of Him in folitary glooms!
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown void with a religious awe.
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake the aftonish'd world, lift high to heaven
Th' impetuous fong, and fay from whom you rage. 50.
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;
And let me catch it as I mufe along.
Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound;
Ye fofter floods that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majeftic main,
A fecret world of wonders in thy felf
Sound his tremendous praife; whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Roll up your incenfe, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to Him; whofe fun elates,
Whofe hand perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forefts, bend; ye harvefts, wave to Him:
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
Homeward, rejoycing with the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effufe your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels ftrike,
Amid the spangled sky, the filver lyre.
Great fource of day! beft image here below
Of thy creator, ever darting wide,
From world to world the vital ocean round,
On Nature write with every beam his praise.
The thunder rolls: be hufh'd the proftrate world;
While cloud to cloud returns the dreadful hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye moffy rocks,
Retain the found: the broad refponfive low,
Ye vallies, raise, for the great Shepherd reigns;
And yet again the golden age returns.
Wildeft of creatures, be not filent here;
But, hymning horrid, let the defart roar.
Ye woodlands all, awake: a general fong
Burft from the groves; and when the restless day,
Expiring lays the warbling world afleep,
Sweeteft of birds! sweet philomela, charm
The listening fhades; and thro' the midnight hour,
Trilling, prolong the wildly-lufcious note;
That night, as well as day may vouch his praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation fmiles;
At once the head, the heart, and mouth of all,
Crown the great Hymn! in fwarming cities valt,
Concourfe of men, to the deep organ join
The long-refounding voice, oft-breaking clear,
At folemn paufes, thro' the swelling base;
And, as each mingling frame encreafes each,
In one united ardor rife to heaven.
you rather chufe the rural fhade,
To find a fane in every facred grove;
There let the fhepherd's flute, the virgin's chaunt,
The prompting feraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still fing the God of Seafons, as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the Bloom blows, the Summer-Ray';
Ruffets the plain, delicious Autumn gleams;
Or Winter rifes in the reddening caft;
Be my tongue mute, may fancy faint no morë,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.
Should fate command me to the fartheft verge Of the green earth, to hoftile barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to fong; where first the fun Gilds Indian mountains, or his fetting beam Flames on th' Atlantic ifles; 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste, as in the city full;
Rolls the fame kindred Seafons round the world,
In all apparent, wife, and good in all;
Since He fuftains, and animates the whole;
From seeming evil ftill educes good,
And better thence again, and better still,
My felf in Him, in light ineffable!
Come then, expreffive Silence, mufe his praise.
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