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And forc'd to abandon what she bravely sought, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Deserves at least applause for her attempt,

Upon th' endearments of domestic life
And pity for her loss. But that's a cause

And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, Not often unsuccessful : pow'r usurp'd,

And doom him for perhaps a heedless word Is weakness when oppos'd ; conscious of wrong, To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.

Moves indignation, makes the name of king But slaves, that once conceive the glowing thought of king whom such prerogative can please) of freedom, in that hope itself possess

As dreadful as the Manichean god,
All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy.
The scorn of danger, and united hearts;

"Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow's The surest presage of the good they seek. of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ;

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more And we are weeds without it. All constraint, To France than all her losses and defeats,

Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Old or of later date, by sea or land,

Is evil: hurts the faculties, impedes
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Their progress in the road of science; blinds
Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh-the Bastile. The eyesight of Discov'ry; and begets,
Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts; In those that suffer it, a sordid mind,
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,

Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
That monarchs have supplied from age to age To be the tenant of man's noble form.
With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears, Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,
The sighs and groans of miserable men!

With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
There's not an English heart, that would not leap, By public exigence, till annual food
To hear that ye were fallin at last; to know Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
That ev'n our enemies, so oft employ'd

Thee I account still happy, and the chief In forging chains for us, themselves were free. Among the nations, seeing thou art free, For he, who values Liberty, confines

My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, His zeal for her predominance within

Replete with vapors, and disposes much No narrow bounds; her cause engages him

All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine : Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. , Thine unadulterate manners are less soft There dwell the most forlorn of human-kind, And plausible than social life requires, Immur'd, though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried, And thou hast need of discipline and art, Cruelly spar'd, and hopeless of escape.

To give thee what politer France receives There, like the visionary emblem seen

From nature's bounty--that humane address By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,

And sweetness, without which no pleasure is And, filleted about with hoops of brass,

In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve, Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone. Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl. To count the hour-bell and expect no change ; Yet being free, I love thee: for the sake And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,

Of that one feature, can be well content,
Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note

Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To him, whose moments all have one dull pace, To seek no sublunary rest beside.
Ten thousand rovers in the World at large

But once enslav'd, farewell! I could endure
Account it music; that it summons some

Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:

Where I am free by birthright, not at all. The wearied hireling finds it a release

Then what were left of roughness in the grain From labor; and the lover, who has chid

Of British natures, wanting its excuse Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight And shock me. I should then with double pain To fly for refuge from distracting thought

Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime; To such amusements, as ingenious woe

And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, Contrives, hard-shifting, and without her tools For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, To read engraven on the mouldy walls,

I would at least bewail it under skies In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale,

Milder, among a people less austere; A sad memorial, and subjoin his own

In scenes, which having never known me free, To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd

Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest

Do I forbode impossible events, Is made familiar, watches his approach,

And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may! Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend But th' age of virtuous politics is past, To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro

And we are deep in that of cold pretence. The studs, that thick emboss his iron door;

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, Then downward and then upward, then aslant, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes And then alternate; with a sickly hope

Deep in his soft credulity the stamp By dint of change to give his tasteless task

Design'd by loud declaimers on the part Some relish: till the sum, exactly found

Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, In all directions, he begins again.

Incurs derision for his easy faith, Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around

And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel For when was public virtue to be found, And beg for exile, or the pangs of death ?

Where private was not? Can he love the whole, 'Chat man should thus encroach on fellow-man, Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend, Abridge him of his just and native rights,

Who is in truth the friend of no man there?

Can he be strenuous in his country's cause,

And confident assurance of the rest, Who slights the charities for whose dear sake Is liberty; a flight into his arms, That country, if at all, must be belov'd ?

Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,
For England's glory, seeing it wax pale

And full immunity from penal woe.
And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts | Chains are the portion of revolted man,
So loose to private duty, that no brain,

Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body serves
Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,
Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. Opprobrious residence, he finds them all.
Such were they not of old, whose temper'd blades Propense his heart to idols, he is held
Dispers'd the shackles of usurp'd control,

In silly dotage on created things,
And hew'd them link from link ; then Albion's sons Careless of their Creator. And that low
Were sons indeed; they felt a filial heart

And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs; To a vile clod so draws him, with such force
And, shining each in his domestic sphere,

Resistless from the centre he should seek,
Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view. That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
"Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot

Tend downward ; his ambition is to sink, Forbids their interference, looking on,

To reach a depth profounder still, and still Anticipate perforce some dire event;

Profounder, in the fathomless abyss And, seeing the old castle of the state,

Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd, But ere he gain the comfortless repose That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,

He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul Stand motionless expectants of its fall.

In Heav'n-renouncing exile, he enduresAll has its date below; the fatal hour

What does he not, from lusts oppos'd in vain, Was register'd in Heav'n ere time hegan.

And self-reproaching conscience? He foresees We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, Die too: the deep foundations that we lay, Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all, Time plows them up, and not a trace remains. That can ennoble man, and make frail life, We build with what we deem eternal rock : Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, A distant age asks where the fabric stood;

Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins And in the dust, sisted and search'd in vain, Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death, But there is yet a liberty unsung

And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, By poets, and by senators unprais'd,

Like that which sends him to the dusty grare; Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs But unrepealable enduring death. Of Earth and Hell confed'rate take away :

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : A liberty, which persecution, fraud,

What none can prove a forg'ry may be true; Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind; What none but bad men wish exploded must. Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud "Tis liberty of heart deriv'd from Heav'n,

Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst Bought with his blood, who gave it to mankind, or laughter, his compunctions are sincere; And seald with the same token. It is held

And he abhors the jest, by which he shines. By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure

Remorse begets reform. His master-lust By th' unimpeachable and awful oath

Falls first before his resolute rebuke, And promise of a God. His other gifts

And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd Peace ensues All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his, But spurious and short-liv'd; the puny child And are august; but this transcends them all. of self-congratulating Pride, begot His other works, the visible display

On fancied Innocence. Again he falls,
Of all-creating energy and might,

And fights again; but finds his best essay
Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word, A presage ominous, portending still
That, finding an interminable space

Its own dishonor by a worse relapse.
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,

Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd And made so sparkling what was dark before. So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,

Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Smit with the beauty of so sair a scene,

Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause Might well suppose th' artificer divine

Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd: Meant it eternal, had he not himself

With shallow shifts and old devices, worn Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is,

And tatter'd in the service of debauch, And, still designing a more glorious far,

Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight. Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise.

"Hath God, indeed, giv'n appetites to man, These, therefore, are occasional, and pass ; * And stor'd the Earth so plenteously with means Form'd for the confutation of the fool,

To gratify the hunger of his wish;
Whose lying heart disputes against a God; And doth he reprobate, and will he damn
That office serv'd, they must be swept away. The use of his own bounty? making first
Not so the labors of his love: they shine

So frail a kind, and then enacting laws
In other heav'ns than these that we behold, So strict, that less than perfect must despair?
And fade not. There is Paradise that fears Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends

Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. Large prelibation oft to saints below.

Do they themselves, who undertake for hire of these the first in order, and the pledge, The teacher's office, and dispense at large

T'heir weekly dole of edifying strains,

And for a time insure, to his lov'd land Attend to their own music? have they faith The sweets of liberty and equal laws; In what with such solemnity of tone

But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And gesture they propound to our belief?

And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed Nay-conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice In confirmation of the noblest claim, Is but an instrument, on which the priest

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, To walk with God, to be divinely free, The unequivocal, authentic deed,

To soar, and to anticipate the skies. We find sound argument, we read the heart." Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,

Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong Till Persecution dragg‘d them into fame, T'' excuses in which reason has no part)

And chas'd them up 10 Heav'n. Their ashes flew Serve to compose a spirit well-inclin'd

-No marble tells us whither. With their names To live on terms of amity with vice.

No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd,

And History, so warm on meaner themes, (As often as libidinous discourse

Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed, Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, Of theological and grave import,)

But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise. They gain at last his unreserv'd assent;

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, of lust, and on the anvil of despair,

That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Can wind around him, but he casts it off, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;

With as much ease as Samson his green withes. Vain temp'ring has but foster'd his disease ; He looks abroad into the varied field 'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.

With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth

His are the mountains, and the valleys his, How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, And the resplendent rivers. His t'enjoy Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps

With a propriety that none can feel, Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR.

| But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise :

And smiling say—“My father made them all!" Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,

Are they not his by a peculiar right, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose,

And by an emphasis of int'rest his, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.

Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm

With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love The eclipse, that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam, That plann'd, and built, and still upholds, a world And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring soul. So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man? The stiLL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must speak, Yes—ye may fill your garments, ye that reap Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect; | The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good Who calls for things that are not, and they come. In senseless riot; but ye will not find

Grace makes the slave a freeman. "Tis a change. In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, That turns to ridicule the turgid speech

| A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd And stately tone of moralists, who boast,

Of usurpation, and io no man's wrong, As if, like him of fabulous renown.

Appropriates nature as his Father's work, They had, indeed, ability to smooth

And has a richer use of yours than you. The shag of savage nature, and were each

He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song:

of no mean city; plann'd or ere the hills But transformation of a postate man

Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea From fool to wise, from earthly to divine,

With all his roaring multitude of waves. Is work for Him that made him. He alone,

His freedom is the same in ev'ry state; And he by means in philosophic eyes

And no condition of this changeful life, Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves

So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day The wonder; humanizing what is brute

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : In the lost kind, extracting from the lips

For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength Nor penury, can cripple or confine. By weakness, and hostility by love.

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there Patriots have toild, and in their country's cause with ease, and is at large. Th'oppressor holds Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, His body bound; but knows not what a range Receive proud recompense. We give in charge | His spirit takes unconscious of a chain; Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic Muse, And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst taste Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass

His works. Admitted once to his embrace, To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust : Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before. But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Made pure shall relish with divine delight Have fallin in her defence. A patriot's blood, Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wroug! Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, | Brutes graze the mountain-lop, with faces pror:

And eyes intent upon the scanty herb

In vain thy creatures testify of thee, It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,

Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread

A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine, Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away

That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, From inland regions to the distant main.

And with the boon gives talents for its use.
Man views it, and admires; but rests content Till thou art heard, imaginations vain
With what he views. The landscape has his praise, Possess the heart, and fables false as Hell;
But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death
The Paradise he sees, he finds it such,

The uninform’d and heedless souls of men.
And, such well-pleas'd to find it, asks no more. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blino
Not so the mind, that has been touch'd from Heav'n, The glory of thy work; which yet appears
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught, Perfect and unimpeachable of blame,
To read his wonders, in whose thought the World, Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd
Fair as it is, existed ere it was.

Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. Not for its own sake merely, but for his

But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st : Much more, who fashion'd it, he gives it praise ; Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r Praise that from Earth resulting, as it ought, (If pow'r she be, that works but to confound) To Earth's acknowledg'd sovereign finds at once To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Its only just proprietor in Him.

Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can The soul that sees him or receives sublim'd

Instruction, and inventing to ourselves New faculties, or learns at least t'employ

Gods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep More worthily the pow'rs she own'd before, Or disregard our follies, or that sit Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage. of ignorance, till then she overlook'd,

Thee we reject, unable to abide A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure, Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ;

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, The unambiguous footsteps of the God,

For which we shunnd and hated thee before. Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,

Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heav'n Much conversant with Heav'n, she often holds | Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. With those fair ministers of light to man,

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not, That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of song Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they A loud IIosanna sent from all thy works; With which Heav'n rang, when ev'ry star in haste Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, To gratulate the new-created Earth,

And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise.
Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God

In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide
Shouted for joy." Tell me, ye shining hosts, Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile
That navigate a sea that knows no storms,

The author of her beauties, who, retir'd
Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,

Behind his own creation, works unseen If from your elevation, whence ye view

By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Distinctly scenes invisible to man,

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet

Their only point of rest, eternal Word!
Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race From thee departing they are lost, and rove
Favor'd as ours; transgressors from the womb, At random without honor, hope, or peace.
And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,

From thee is all, that soothes the life of man,
And to possess a brighter Heav'n than yours? His high endeavor, and his glad success,
As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
Pants to return, and when he sees afar

But 0 thou bounteous giver of all good,
His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!
From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;
Radiant with joy towards the happy land;

And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.
So I with animated hopes behold,
And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,
That show like beacons in the blue abyss,

BOOK VI.
Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home
From toilsome life to never-ending rest.

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires,
That give assurance of their own success,

Argument. And that, infus'd from Heav'n, must thither tend.” Bells at a distance. Their effect. A fine noon in

So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth winter. A sheltered walk. Meditation better Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!

than books. Our familiarity with the course of Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,

nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is. With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt,

The transformation that Spring effects in a shrubBut runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built bery described. A mistake concerning the course With means, that were not till by thee employ'd, of nature corrected. God maintains it by an Worlds, that had never been hadst thou in strength unremitted act. The amusements fashionable at Been less, or less benevolent than strong.

this hour of the day reproved. Animals happy. They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r

a delightful sight. Origin of cruelty to animals And goodness infinite, but speak in ears

That it is a great crime, proved from Scripture That hear not, or receive not their report.

That proof illustrated by a tale. A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of And where the woods fence off the northern blast them. Their good and useful properties insisted The season smiles, resigning all its rage, on. Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue author on animals. Instances of man's extrava- Without a cloud, and white without a speck gant praise of man. The groans of the creation The dazzling splendor of the scene below. shall have an end. A view taken of the restora- Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; tion of all things. An invocation, and an invita- And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r, tion of Him who shall bring it to pass. The Whence all the music. I again perceive retired man vindicated from the charge of use- The soothing influence of the wafted strains, lessness. Conclusion.

And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd The roof, though movable through all its length With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd, Some chord in unison with what we hear

And, intercepting in their silent fall Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. How soft the music of those village bells,

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. Falling at intervals upon the ear

The red-breast warbles still, but is content In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!

From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes With easy force it opens all the cells

From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
And with It all its pleasures and its pains.

Charms more than silence. Meditation here Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, May think down hours to moments. Here the hear, That in a few short moments I retrace

May give a useful lesson to the head, As in a map the voyager his course)

And Learning wiser grow without his books. The windings of my way through many years. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Short as in retrospect the journey seems,

Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Mov'd many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, Yet feeling present evils, while the past

The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,

Till smooth'd, and squard, and fitted to its place How readily we wish time spent revok'd,

Does but encumber whom it seems t'enrich.
That we might try the ground again, where once Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive) | Wisdom is humble that he knows no mora.
We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Books are not seldorn talismans and spells,
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, By which the magic art of shrewder wits
A father, whose authority, in show

Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall’d.
When most severe, and must'ring all its force, Some to the fascination of a name
Was but the graver countenance of love;

Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the sty
Whose favor, like the clouds of Spring, might low'r, Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds
And utter now and then an awful voice,

Of error leads them, by a tune entranc'd. But had a blessing in its darkest frown,

While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. The insupportable fatigue of thought; We lov’d, but not enough, the gentle hand, And swallowing therefore without pause or choice That rear'd us. At a thoughiless age, allur'd The total grist unsifted, husks and all. By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd

But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent

Defies the check of Winter, haunts of deer, That converse, which we now in vain regret, And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, How gladly would the man recall to life

And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time The boy's neglected sire! a mother too,

Peeps through the moss, that clothes the hawthorn roo That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Not shy, as in the world, and to be won Sorrow has, since they went, subdu'd and tam'd By slow solicitation, seize at once The playful humor; he could now i'ndure,

The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. (Himself grown sober in the vale of tear-,)

What prodigies can pow'r divine perform And feel a parent's presence no restraint.

More grand than it produces year by year,
But not to understand a treasure's worth,

And all in sight of inattentive man?
Till time has stolen away the slighted good, Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,

And in the constancy of nature's course,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.

And regular return of genial months,
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,

And renovation of a faded world,
And, seeking grace t'improve the prize they hold, See nought to wonder at. Should God again,
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race
The night was Winter in his roughest mood; Of the undeviating and punctual sun,
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon How would the world admire ! but speaks it les
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

| An agency divine, to make him know

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