HYMNS

Begin the high celestial strain,My ravish'd soul, and sing,A solemn hymn of grateful praiseTo heav'n's Almighty King.Ye curling fountains, as ye rollYour silver waves along,Whisper to all your verdant shoresThe subject of my song.Retain it long y' echoing rocks,The sacred sound retain,And from your hollow winding cavesReturn it oft again.Bear it, ye winds, on all your wings,To distant climes away,And round the wide extended worldMy lofty theme convey.Take the glad burden of his name,Ye clouds, as you arise,Whether to deck the golden morn,Or shade the ev'ning skies.Let harmless thunders roll alongThe smooth etherial plain,And answer from the crystal vaultTo ev'ry flying strain.Long let it warble round the spheres,And echo through the sky,Till Angels, with immortal skill,Improve the harmony.While I, with sacred rapture fir'd,The blest Creator sing,And warble consecrated laysTo heav'n's Almighty King.

Hail sacred Salem! plac'd on high,Seat of the mighty King!What thought can grasp thy boundless bliss,What tongue thy glories sing?Thy crystal tow'rs and palacesMagnificently rise,And dart their beaut'ous lustre roundThe empyrean skies.The voice of triumph in thy streetsAnd acclamations found,Gay banquets in thy splendid courtsAnd purest joys abound.Bright smiles on ev'ry face appear,Rapture in ev'ry eye;From ev'ry mouth glad anthems flow,And charming harmony.Illustrious day for ever there,Streams from the face divine;No pale-fac'd moon e'er glimmers forth,Nor stars nor sun decline.No scorching heats, no piercing colds,The changing seasons bring;But o'er the fields mild breezes thereBreathe an eternal spring.The flow'rs with lasting beauty shine,And deck the smiling ground,While flowing streams of pleasures allThe happy plains surround.

Now let the spacious world arise,Said the creator Lord:At once th' obedient earth and skiesRose at his sov'reign word.Dark was the deep, the waters layConfus'd, and drown'd the land;He call'd the light, the new-born dayAttends on his command.He bids the clouds ascend on high;The clouds ascend, and bearA wat'ry treasure to the sky,And float on softer air.The liquid element below,Was gather'd by his hand;The rolling seas together flow,And leave a solid land:With herbs and plants (a flow'ry birth)The naked globe he crown'd,Ere there was rain to bless the earth,Or sun to warm the ground.Then he adorn'd the upper skies,Behold the sun appears,The moon and stars in order rise,To mark our months and years.Out of the deep th' Almighty KingDid vital beings frame,And painted fowls of ev'ry wing,And fish of ev'ry name,He gave the lion and the wormAt once their wond'rous birth;And grazing beasts of various formRose from the teeming earth.Adam was form'd of equal clay,The sov'reign of the rest;Design'd for nobler ends than they,With God's own image blest.Thus glorious in the Maker's eye,The young Creation stood;He saw the building from on high,His word pronounc'd it good.

Father of all! we bow to thee,Who dwells in heav'n ador'd;But present still thro' all thy works,The universal Lord.All hallow'd be thy sacred name,O'er all the nations known;Advance the kingdom of thy grace,And let thy glory come.A grateful homage may we yield,With hearts resigned to thee;And as in heav'n thy will is done,On earth so let it be.From day to day we humbly ownThe hand that feeds us still;Give us our bread, and we may restContented in thy will.Our sins and trespasses we own;O may they be forgiv'n!That mercy we to others shew,We pray the like from Heav'n.Our life let still thy grace direct,From evil guard our way,And in temptation's fatal pathPermit us not to stray.For thine the pow'r, the kingdom thine,All glory's due to thee:Thine from eternity they were,And thine shall ever be.

Father of all, in ev'ry age,In ev'ry clime ador'd;By saint, by savage, and by sage,Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.Thou great First Cause, least understood;Who all my sense confin'd,To know but this, that thou art good,And that myself am blind:Yet gave me in this dark estate,To see the good from ill;And binding Nature fast in fate,Left free the human Will.What conscience dictates to be done,Or warns me not to do,This, teach me more than hell to shun,That, more than heav'n pursue.What blessings thy free bounty gives;Let me not cast away;For God is paid when man receives,T' enjoy is to obey.Yet not to earth's contracted spanThy goodness let me bound,Or think thee Lord alone of Man,When thousand worlds are round:Let not this weak unknowing handPresume thy bolts to throw,And deal damnation round the land,On each I judge thy foe.If I am right, thy grace impart,Still in the right to stay;If I am wrong, O teach my heartTo find that better way.Save me alike from foolish pride,Or impious discontent,At aught thy wisdom has deny'd,Or aught thy goodness lent.Teach me to feel another's woe,To hide the fault I see;That mercy I to others shew,That mercy show to me.Mean though I am, not wholly so,Since quicken'd by thy breath;Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go,Through this day's life or death.This day be bread and peace my lot:All else beneath the sun,Thou knowst if best bestow'd or not,And let thy will be done.To thee, whose temple is all space,Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!One chorus let all being raise!All nature's incense rise!

Know then thyself; presume not God to scanThe proper study of mankind, is man.Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,A being darkly wise, and rudely great;With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;In doubt, to deem himself a God, or beast;In doubt, his mind or body to prefer;Born, but to die; and reas'ning, but to err:Alike in ignorance, his reason such,Whether he thinks too little or too much:Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd:Created, half to rise, and half to fall;Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all:Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

See! Winter comes, to rule the varied year,Sullen and sad, with all his rising train,Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme;These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought,And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful morn of life,When, nurs'd by careless solitude, I liv'd,And sung of nature with unceasing joy.Pleas'd, have I wand'red through your rough domain;Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure;Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'dIn the grim evening sky. Thus pass the time,Till, through the lucid chambers of the south,Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out, and smil'd.

My name is Norval. On the Grampian HillsMy father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,Whose constant cares were to increase his store,And keep his only son, myself, at home.For I had heard of battles, and I long'dTo follow to the field some warlike lord:And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd.This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light,A band of fierce barbarians, from the hillsRush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale,Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fledFor safety and for succour. I alone,With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'dThe road he took; then hasted to my friends;Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,I met advancing. The pursuit I led,Till we o'ertook the spoil encumber'd foe.We fought—and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief,Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.Returning home in triumph, I disdain'dThe shepherd's slothful life: and having heardThat our good king had summon'd his bold peers,To lead their warriors to the Carron side,I left my father's house, and took with meA chosen servant to conduct my steps—Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers;And, heaven directed, came this day, to doThe happy deed, that gilds my humble name.

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remoteAnd inaccessible by shepherds trod,In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man,Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains,Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,Did they report him; the cold earth his bed,Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.I went to see him, and my heart was touch'dWith rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake,And, entering on discourse, such stories told,As made me oft revisit his sad cell.For he had been a soldier in his youth,And fought in famous battles, when the peersOf Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,Against th' usurping infidel display'dThe blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fireHis speech struck from me; the old man would shakeHis years away, and act his young encounters.Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down.And all the live long day, discourse of war.To help my fancy, in the smooth green turfHe cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts:Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the useOf the deep column and lengthen'd line,The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm;For, all that Saracen or Christian knewOf war's vast art, was to this hermit known.Unhappy man!Returning homeward by Messina's port,Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,A rude and boist'rous captain of the seaFasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought;The stranger fell, and with his dying breath,Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God!The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!They exchanged forgiveness:And happy, in my mind, was he that died;For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd,In the wild desart on a rock he sits,Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.At times, alas! not in his perfect mind!Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost;And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,To make sad orisons for him he slew.

In ancient times, as story tells,The saints would often leave their cells,And stroll about; but hide their quality,To try good people's hospitality.It happened, on a winter night,As authors on the legend write,Two brother hermits, saints by trade;Taking their tour in masquerade,Disguis'd in tattered habits, wentTo a small village down in Kent;Where, in the stroller's canting strain,They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;Tri'd every tone might pity win,But not a soul would let them in.Our wandering saints, in woeful state,Treated at this ungodly rate,Having through all the village pass'd,To a small cottage came at last,Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;Who kindly did these saints inviteIn his poor hut to pass the night;And, then, the hospitable sireBid goody Baucis mend the fire;While he, from out the chimney, tookA flitch of bacon off the hook,And, freely from the fattest side,Cut out large slices to be fry'd:Then stept aside, to fetch them drink,Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;Then saw it fairly twice go round;Yet (what is wonderful) they found,'Twas still replenish'd to the top,As if they had not touch'd a drop.The good old couple were amaz'd,And often on each other gaz'd;For both were frighten'd to the heart,And just began to cry—What art!Then softly turn'd aside to view,Whether the lights were turning blue,The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,Told them their calling and their errand;"Good folks you need not be afraid;"We are but saints," the hermit said;"No hurt shall come to you or yours;"But for that pack of churlish boors,"Not fit to live on Christian ground,"They, and their houses shall be drown'd;"While you see your cottage rise,"And grow a church before your eyes."They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,The roof began to move aloft;Aloft rose every beam and rafter;The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,Became a steeple with a spire.The kettle to the top was hoist;With upside down, doom'd there to dwell,'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.A wooden jack, which had almostLost, by disuse, the art to roast,A sudden alteration feels,Increas'd by new intestine wheels;And strait against the steeple rear'd,Became a clock, and still adher'd;And, now, in love to household cares,By a shrill voice the hour declares,Warning the housemaid not to burnThe roast-meat which it cannot turn.The easy chair began to crawl,Like a huge snail along the wall;There, stuck aloft in public view,And, with small change, a pulpit grew.A bed-stead of the antique mode,Made up of timber many a load,Such as our ancestors did use,Was metamorphos'd into pews:Which still their ancient nature keep,By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.The cottage by such feats as these,Grown to a church by just degrees,The hermits then desir'd their hostOld goodman Dobson of the green,Remembers, he the trees has seen;He'll talk of them from morn to night,And goes with folks to shew the sight.On Sundays, after ev'ning prayer,He gathers all the parish there;Points out the place of either yew:"Here Baucis, there Philemon grew;"Till, once, a parson of our town,"To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;"At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd;"How much the other tree was griev'd;"Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;"So the next parson stubb'd, and burnt it."

In ancient times, as story tells,The saints would often leave their cells,And stroll about; but hide their quality,To try good people's hospitality.

It happened, on a winter night,As authors on the legend write,Two brother hermits, saints by trade;Taking their tour in masquerade,Disguis'd in tattered habits, wentTo a small village down in Kent;Where, in the stroller's canting strain,They begg'd from door to door, in-vain;Tri'd every tone might pity win,But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state,Treated at this ungodly rate,Having through all the village pass'd,To a small cottage came at last,Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman,Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon;Who kindly did these saints inviteIn his poor hut to pass the night;And, then, the hospitable sireBid goody Baucis mend the fire;While he, from out the chimney, tookA flitch of bacon off the hook,And, freely from the fattest side,Cut out large slices to be fry'd:Then stept aside, to fetch them drink,Fill'd a large jug up to the brink;Then saw it fairly twice go round;Yet (what is wonderful) they found,'Twas still replenish'd to the top,As if they had not touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd,And often on each other gaz'd;For both were frighten'd to the heart,And just began to cry—What art!Then softly turn'd aside to view,Whether the lights were turning blue,The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,Told them their calling and their errand;"Good folks you need not be afraid;"We are but saints," the hermit said;"No hurt shall come to you or yours;"But for that pack of churlish boors,"Not fit to live on Christian ground,"They, and their houses shall be drown'd;"While you see your cottage rise,"And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,The roof began to move aloft;Aloft rose every beam and rafter;The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,Became a steeple with a spire.The kettle to the top was hoist;With upside down, doom'd there to dwell,'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.A wooden jack, which had almostLost, by disuse, the art to roast,A sudden alteration feels,Increas'd by new intestine wheels;And strait against the steeple rear'd,Became a clock, and still adher'd;And, now, in love to household cares,By a shrill voice the hour declares,Warning the housemaid not to burnThe roast-meat which it cannot turn.The easy chair began to crawl,Like a huge snail along the wall;There, stuck aloft in public view,And, with small change, a pulpit grew.A bed-stead of the antique mode,Made up of timber many a load,Such as our ancestors did use,Was metamorphos'd into pews:Which still their ancient nature keep,By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these,Grown to a church by just degrees,The hermits then desir'd their hostOld goodman Dobson of the green,Remembers, he the trees has seen;He'll talk of them from morn to night,And goes with folks to shew the sight.On Sundays, after ev'ning prayer,He gathers all the parish there;Points out the place of either yew:"Here Baucis, there Philemon grew;"Till, once, a parson of our town,"To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;"At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd;"How much the other tree was griev'd;"Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted;"So the next parson stubb'd, and burnt it."

Oh happiness! our being's end and aim;Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er they name,That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,For which we bear to live, or dare to die:Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise:Plant of celestial seed! if drop'd below,Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow:Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine;Or deep with di'monds in the flaming mine?Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field?Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil,We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere?'Tis no where to be found, or every where.Order is heaven's first law: and this confest,Some are, and must be, greater than the rest;More rich, more wise. But, who infers from henceThat such are happier, shocks all common sense;Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,If all are equal in their happiness.But mutual wants this happiness increase;All natures difference keeps all natures peace.Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;Bliss is the same, in subject, or in king;In who obtain defence, or who defend;In him who is, or him who finds a friend.Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,And these be happy call'd, unhappy those;But heaven's just balance equal will appear,While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear;Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse,But future views of better, or of worse.Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise,By mountains pil'd on, mountains, to the skies?Heaven still, with laughter, the vain toil surveys,And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.Know, all the good that individuals find,Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence.

Order is heaven's first law: and this confest,Some are, and must be, greater than the rest;More rich, more wise. But, who infers from henceThat such are happier, shocks all common sense;Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,If all are equal in their happiness.But mutual wants this happiness increase;All natures difference keeps all natures peace.Condition, circumstance, is not the thing;Bliss is the same, in subject, or in king;In who obtain defence, or who defend;In him who is, or him who finds a friend.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,And these be happy call'd, unhappy those;But heaven's just balance equal will appear,While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear;Nor present good or ill, the joy or curse,But future views of better, or of worse.

Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise,By mountains pil'd on, mountains, to the skies?Heaven still, with laughter, the vain toil surveys,And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.

Know, all the good that individuals find,Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence.

Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern climeAdvancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl,When Adam wak'd; so custom'd; for his sleepWas airy light, from pure digestion bred,And temperate vapours bland, which the only foundOf leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,Lightly dispers'd, and the thrill matin songOf birds on ev'ry bough. So much the moreHis wonder was to find unwaken'd EveWith tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek.As through unquiet rest. He, on his sideLeaning half rais'd, with looks of cordial love,Hung over her enamour'd; and beheldBeauty, which, whether waking or asleep,Shot forth peculiar graces. Then, with voiceMild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,Her hand soft touching, whispered thus; "Awake,"My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found:"Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight,"Awake!—The morning shines, and the fresh field"Calls us. We lose the prime; to mark how spring"Our tended plants; how blows the citron grove:"What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed;"How nature paints her colours; how the bee"Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweet."

The hour advances, the decisive hour,That lifts me to the summit of renown,Or leaves me on the earth a breathless corse,The buzz and bustle of the field before me;The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears:With every circumstance of preparation;Strike with an awful horror!—Shouts are echo'd,To drown dismay, and blow up resolutionEven to its utmost swell.—From hearts so firm,Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire,What has a leader not to hope! And, yet,The weight of apprehension sinks me down—"O, soul of Nature! great eternal cause,"Who gave, and govern's all that's here below!"'Tis by the aid of thy almighty arm"The weak exist, the virtuous are secure."If, to your sacred laws obedient ever"My sword, my soul, have own'd no other guide,"Oh! if your honour, if the rights of men,"My country's happiness, my king's renown,"Were motives worthy of a warrior's zeal,"Crown your poor servant with success this day:"And be the praise and glory all thy own."

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruitOf that forbidden tree, whose mortal tasteBrought death into the world, and all our woe,With loss of Eden, till one greater manRestore us, and regain the blissful seat,Sing heav'nly muse! that on the sacred topOf Oreb, or of Sinai, did'st inspireThat shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,In the beginning, how the heav'ns and earthRose out of chaos: or, if Sion hillDelight thee more, and Silo's book that flow'd.Fast by the oracle of God; I thenceInvoke thy aid to my advent'rous song,That, with no middle flight, intends to soarAbove th' Aonian mount, while it pursuesThings unattempted yet in prose or rhymeAnd chiefly thou, O Spirit! that dost preferBefore all temples, th' upright heart and pure,Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou, from the first,Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread,Dove-like sat'st brooding o'er the vast abyss,And mad'st it pregnant; what in me is dark,Illumine: what is low, raise and support;That, to the height of this great argument,I may assert eternal providence,And justify the ways of God to men.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!Almighty! thine this universal frame,Thus wond'rous fair: thyself, how wond'rous, then,Unspeakable! who fit'st above these heav'ns,To us invisible, or dimly seenIn these thy lowest works; yet these declareThy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine—Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,Angels!—for ye behold him, and, with songsAnd choral symphonies, day without night,Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heav'n!—On earth, join all ye creatures, to extolHim first, him last, him midst, and without end,Fairest of stars! last in the train of night,If better then, belong not to the dawn,Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling mornWith thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.Thou fun! of this great world both eye and foul,Acknowledge him thy greater: found his praiseIn thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fall'st,Moon! that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'stWith the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;And ye five other wand'ring fires! that moveIn mystic dance, not without song; resoundHis praise, who out of darkness, call'd up light.Air, and ye elements! the eldest birthOf nature's womb, that, in quaternion, runPerpetual circle, multiform, and mixAnd nourish all things; let your ceaseless changeVary, to our great Maker, still new praise,Ye mists and exhalations! that now riseFrom hill or streaming lake, dusky or grey,Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,In honour to the world's great Author, rise;Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky,Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,Rising, or falling, still advance his praise.His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,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-gate ascend,Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.—Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walkThe earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep!Witness, if I be silent, morn or ev'n,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 nightHave gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd—Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;When nought, but the torrent, is heard on the hill;And nought, but the, nightingale's song, in the grove;'Twas then, by the cave of the fountain afar;A hermit his song of the night thus began;No more with himself, or with nature at war,He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.'Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe?'Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?'For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,'And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay;'Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;'Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,'Full quickly they pass—but they never return.'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,'The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays;'But lately I mark'd; when majestic: on high'She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.'Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue'The path that conducts thee to splendor again—'But man's faded glory no change shall renew:'Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;'I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you:'For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,'Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.'Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn;'Kind nature the embryo blossom will save—'But, when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?'O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!''Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.'O! pity, great father of light!' then I cry'd,'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;'Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:F'rom doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.'And darkness, and doubt, are now flying away,No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn,So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,

'Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe?'Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?'For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,'And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.'Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay;'Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;'Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,'Full quickly they pass—but they never return.

'Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,'The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays;'But lately I mark'd; when majestic: on high'She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.'Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue'The path that conducts thee to splendor again—'But man's faded glory no change shall renew:'Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.

''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;'I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you:'For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,'Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew.'Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn;'Kind nature the embryo blossom will save—'But, when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?'O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!'

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade,Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.'O! pity, great father of light!' then I cry'd,'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;'Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:F'rom doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.'

And darkness, and doubt, are now flying away,No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn,So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door;Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span,Oh! give relief and heav'n will bless your store,These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheekHas been the channel to a flood of tears.You house erected on the rising ground,With tempting aspect, drew me from my road,For plenty there a residence has found,And grandeur a magnificent abode.Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,A pamper'd menial drove me from the door,To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold:Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,For I am poor and miserably old.Should I reveal the sources of my grief,If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,And tears of pity would not be represt.Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine?'Tis heav'n has brought me to the state you see;And your condition may be soon like mine,The child of sorrow and of misery.A little farm was my paternal lot,Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn:But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.My daughter, once the comfort of my age,Lur'd by a villain from her native home,Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,And left the world to wretchedness and me.Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,Oh! give relief, and heav'n will bless your store.

Oh, first of human blessings and supreme,Fair Peace! how lovely, how delightful, thou!By whose wide tie, the kindred sons of men,brothers live, in amity combin'd,And unsuspicious faith: while honest toilGives ev'ry joy; and, to those joys, a right,Which idle barbarous rapine but usurps.Pure is thy reign; when, unaccurs'd by blood,Nought, save the sweetness of indulgent show'rs,Trickling, distils into the vernant glebe;Instead of mangled carcases, sad scene!When the blythe sheaves lie scatter'd o'er the field;When only shining shares, the crooked knife,And hooks imprint the vegetable wound;When the land blushes with the rose alone,The falling fruitage, and the bleeding vine.Oh! peace! then source and soul of social life!Beneath whose calm inspiring influence,Science his views enlarges, art refines,And swelling commerce opens all her ports—Bless'd be the man divine, who gives us thee!Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang,Nor blow the giddy nations into rage;Who sheathes the murd'rous blade; the deadly gunInto the well-pil'd armory returns;And, ev'ry vigour from the work of deathTo grateful industry converting, makesThe country flourish, and the city smile!Unviolated, him the virgin sings;And him, the smiling mother, to her train.Of him, the Shepherd, in the peaceful dale,Chaunts; and the treasures of his labour sure,The husbandman, of him, as at the plough,Or team, he toils. With him, the Tailor soothes,Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave;And the full city, warm, from street to street,And shop to shop, responsive rings of him.Nor joys one land alone: his praise extends,Far as the sun rolls the diffusive day;Far as the breeze can bear the gifts of peace;Till all the happy nations catch the song.

All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players:They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts;His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms;And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,And shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then, the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woful balladMade to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldierFull of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputation,Ev'n in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd;With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances,And so he plays his part. The sixth age foistsInto the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side.His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank; and his big manly voiceTurning again towards childish treble, pipes.And whistles in his sound. Last scene of allThat ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

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