Ye flocks that haunt the bumble vale, Wake, all ye mountain tribes, and sing; TO HIM who shap'd your finer mould, Let man, by nobler passions sway'd, Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, Fall prostrate at his throne: Ye princes, rulers, all adore; Praise him, ye kings, who makes your pow'r Ye fair, by Nature form'd to move, Let Sigh his bless'd name-then soar away, OGILVIE, CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. O THOU! whose balance does the mountains weigh; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey; Whose breath can turn those watʼry worlds to flame, O! give the winds all past offence to sweep, This glorious volume which thy wisdom made! May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul! Grant I may ever at the morning ray, Open with pray'r the consecrated day; And oh! permit the gloom of solemn night, Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, Can'st thou not shake the centre? Oh control, At the great day of recompense behold, My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, YOUNG, From the Office of THE END |