To us invifible, or dimly feen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who beft can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with fongs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him firft, him laft, him midft and without end..
Fairest of ftars, laft 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 fphere,
While day arifes, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou fun, of this great world both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
Andwhen high noon haft gain'd, and when thoufall'ft.
Moon, that now meet'ft the orient fun, 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 myftic dance, not without fong, refound
His praife, 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 ceafelefs change.
Vary to our great Maker ftill new praife.
Ye mifts and exhalations that now rife
From hill or ftreaming lake, dufky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rife,
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling fhowers,
Rifing or falling ftill advance his praise.
His praife, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe foft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in fign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.
Join voices all ye living fouls; ye birds,
That finging up to heaven-gate afcend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praife.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witnefs if I be filent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh fhade,
Made vocal by my fong, and taught his praise.
Hail univerfal Lord! be bounteous ftill
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal'd,
Difperfe it, as now light difpels the dark.
E fhepherds fo cheerful and gay,
Whofe flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to mufe and to figh,
'Nor talk of the change that we find; None once was fo watchful as I ;
-I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and defire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewel.
Since Phyllis vouchfaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I priz'd every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are paft, and I figh; And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languifh in vain ?
Why wander thus penfively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the fmiles, of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd, I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that the faw me depart:
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly difcern;
So fweetly the bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
I
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine,
If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft, hope is the relic I bear,
And my folace wherever I go.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whofe murmur invites one to fleep; My grottos are fhaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with fheep. I feldom have met with a lofs,
Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with mofs, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beach's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than ay cattle unfold!
Not a brook that s limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
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