But how fhall I thy endless virtues tell,
In which thou doft all other books excel?
No greasy thumb thy spotlefs leaf can foil,
Nor crooked dog-ears thy smooth corners spoil;
In idle pages no errata stand,

To tell the blunders of the printer's hand:
No fulfome dedication here is writ,

Nor flattering verse to praise the author's wit :
The margin with no tedious notes is vex'd,
No various readings to confound the text:
All parties in thy literal fenfe agree,
Thou perfect centre of concordancy!
Search we the records of an antient date,
Or read what modern hiftories relate,
They all proclaim what wonders have been done
By the plain letters taken as they run.
**Too high the floods of paffion us❜d to roll,
"And rend the Roman youth's impatient foul;
"His hafty anger furnish'd scenes of blood,
"And frequent deaths of worthy men enfued:

* The lines thus "marked, deferibe the advice given to Auguftus, by Athenodorus the ftoic philofopher, who defired the emperor neither to say nor do any thing till he had first repeated the alphabet, or letters of the Horn-book; the ftrict obfervance of this rule would be the means to make his paffions fubfide, and prevent mifchievous confequences.

" In vain were all the weaker methods tried,
"None could fuffice to ftem the furious tide;
Thy facred lines he did but once repeat,
"And laid the ftorm, and cool'd the raging heat."
Thy heavenly notes, like angels mufic, cheer
Departing fouls, and footh the dying ear.
An aged peafant, on his lateft bed,

Wish'd for a friend fome godly book to read;
The pious grandson thy known handle takes,
And (eyes lift up) this fav'ry lecture makes :
Great A, he gravely read; th' important found
The empty walls, and hollow roof rebound:
Th' expiring antient rear'd his drooping head,
And thank'd his stars that Hodge had learn'd to read.
Great B, the younker bawls! O heavenly breath!
What ghoftly comforts in the hour of death!
What hopes I feel! great C, pronounc'd the boy;
The grandfire dies with extafy of joy.

Yet in fome lands fuch ignorance abounds,
Whole parishes scarce know thy useful founds.
Of Effex hundreds fame gives this report,
But fame, I ween, fays many things in fport.
Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown,
Tho' few th' extent of thy vaft empire own.
Whatever wonders magic spells can do
On earth, in air, in fea, in fhades below;

What words profound and dark wife Mah'met spoke,
When his old cow an angel's figure took;

What

What ftrong enchantments fage Canidia knew,
Or Horace fung, fierce monfters to fubdue,
O mighty book, are all contain'd in you!
All human arts, and every science meet,
Within the limits of thy single sheet :
From thy vaft root all learning's branches grow,
And all her ftreams from thy deep fountain flow.
And lo! while thus thy wonders I indite,
Infpir'd I feel the power of which I write ;
The gentler gout his former rage forgets,
Lefs frequent now, and lefs fevere the fits:
Loose grow the chains, which bound my useless feet;
Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat;
Surprizing ftrength comes every moment on,
I ftand, I step, I walk, and now I run.
Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop,

*EUPOLIS' HYMN TO THE CREATOR.

FROM THE GREEK.

A

Uthor of being, fource of light,
With unfading beauties bright,
Fulness, goodness, rolling round
Thy own fair orb without a bound:
Whether thee thy fuppliants call
Truth, or good, or one, or all,
+ Ei or Iao; Thee we hail,
Effence that can never fail,
Grecian or barbaric name,

Thy ftedfaft being still the fame.

Thee, when morning greets the skies
With rofy cheeks and humid eyes;
Thee, when sweet declining day
Sinks in purple waves away;
Thee will I fing, O parent Jove,
And teach the world to praise and love.
Yonder azure vault on high,

Yonder blue, low, liquid sky,

Earth on its firm bafis plac'd,

And with circling waves embrac'd,

* A Greek poet, contemporary with Ariftophanes.

Names attributed to the deity.

All

All creating power confefs,

All their mighty maker bless.

Thou shak'st all nature with thy nod,

Sea, earth, and air, confefs the God:
Yet does thy powerful hand sustain

Both earth and heaven, both firm and main.
Scarce can our daring thoughts arise
To thy pavilion in the skies;
Nor can Plato's felf declare

The blifs, the joy, the rapture there.
Barren above thou doft not reign,
But circled with a glorious train,
The fons of God, the fons of light,
Ever joying in thy fight:

(For thee their filver harps are ftrung,)

Ever beauteous, ever young;

Angelic forms their voices raife,

And thro' heaven's arch refound thy praise.
The feather'd fowls that fwim the air,
And bathe in liquid ether there.

The lark, fweet herald of their choir,
Leading them higher ftill and higher,
Listen and learn; th' angelic notes
Repeating in their warbling throats:
And ere to foft repose they go,
Teach them to their lords below:
On the green turf, their moffy neft,
The evening anthem fwells their breast.