Page images
PDF

Which three sad sisters of the shade,
Pain, Care, and Melancholy, made.
Through this her all-enquiring eye,
Attentive from her station high,
Beheld, abandon'd to despair,
The ruins of her fav'rite Fair;
And, with a voice whose awful sound
Apall'd the guilty world around,
Bid the tumultuous winds be still;
To numbers bow’d each list'ning hill,
Uncurl’d the surging of the main,
And smooth'd the thorny bed of pain,
The golden harp of heav'n she strung,
And thus the tuneful goddess sung:

“Lovely Penitent, arise,
Come and claim thy kindred skies,
Come, thy sister angels say,
Thou hast wept thy stains away.

“Let experience now decide
'Twixt the good and evil try’d:
In the smooth enchanted ground,
Say, unfold the treasures found.

“Structures rais'd by morning dreams, Sands that trip the flitting streams, Down that anchors on the air, Clouds that paint their changes there.

“Seas that smoothly dimpling lie, While the storm impends on high, Showing in an obvious glass, Joys that in possession pass. A “Transient, fickle, light, and gay, Flatt'ring only to betray, What, alas! can life contain? Life! like all its circles—vain. “Will the stork, intending rest, On the billow build her nest? Will the bee demand his store From the bleak and bladeless shore? “Man alone, intent to stray, Ever turns from wisdom's way, Lays up wealth in foreign land, Sows the sea, and ploughs the sand. “Soon this elemental mass, Soon th’ incumb'ring world shall pass, Form be wrapt in wasting fire, Time be spent, and life expire. “Then, ye boasted works of men, Where is your assylum then? Sons of Pleasure, sons of Care, Tell me, mortals, tell me where? “Gone, like traces on the deep, Like a sceptre grasp'd in sleep, Dews exhal'd from morning glades, Melting snows, and gliding shades,

“Pass the world, and what's behind 2– Virtue's gold, by fire refin'd; From a universe deprav'd, From the wreck of nature sav'd. “Like the life-supporting grain, Fruit of patience and of pain, On the swain's autumnal day, Winnow'd from the chaff away. “Little trembler, fear no more, Thou hast plenteous crops in store! Seed, by genial sorrows sown, More than all thy scorners own. “What though hostile earth despise, Heav'n beholds with gentler eyes; Heav'n thy friendless steps shall guide, Cheer thy hours, and guard thy side. “When the fatal trump shall sound. When th' immortals pour around, Heav'n shall thy return attest, Hail'd by myriads of the blest. “Little native of the skies, Lovely penitent, arise, Calm thy bosom, clear thy brow, Virtue is thy sister now. “More delightful are my woes, Than the rapture pleasure knows; Richer far the weeds I bring, Than the robes that grace a king.

“On my wars, of shortest date,
Crowns of endless triumph wait;
On my cares a period blest,
On my toils etermal rest.

“Come, with Virtue at thy side,
Come, be ev'ry bar defy'd,
*Till we gain our native shore,
Sister, come, and turn no more.”

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN.
BY MILto N.

These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without might,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
En thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st
With the fix’d stars, fix’d in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paints 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 showers,
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 every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs warbling, tune his praise.

« PreviousContinue »