Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing
Riding fublime, Thou bid'ft the world adore,
And humbleft nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet fo delightful mix'd, with fuch kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd,
Shade unperceiv'd, so foft'ning into fhade,
And all fo forming an harmonious whole,
That, as they ftill fucceed, they ravish still.
But wand'ring oft' with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand
That, ever bufy, wheels the filent fpheres,
Works in the fecret deep, fhoots ftreaming thence
The fair profufion that o'erfpreads the Spring!.
Flings from the fun, direct, the flaming day,
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the fprings of life.
Nature, attend! join every living faul
Beneath the fpacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join, and, ardent, raise
One general fong! to Him, ye vocal Glades!
Breathe foft, whofe Spirit in your freshness breathes;
Oh talk of him in folitary glooms!
Where, o'er the rock, the fcarcely waving pine
Fills the brown fhade with a religious awe.
And ye, whofe bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to Heaven
Th' impetuous fong, and fay from whom you rage!
His praife, ye Brooks! attune, ye trembling Rills!
And let me catch it as I mufe along.
Ye headlong Torrents! rapid and profound;
Ye fofter Floods! that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou majestic Main!
A fecret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound his ftupendous praife, whofe greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Soft roll your incenfe, Herbs, and Fruits, and Flowers
In mingled clouds, to Him, whofe fun exalts,
Whofe breath perfumes you, and whofe pencil paints.
Ye forefts bend: ye Harvefts wave to Him!
Breathe your ftill fong into the reaper's heart
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in Heaven! as Earth afleep
Unconscious lies, effufe your mildest beams,
Ye Constellations! while your Angels strike,
Amid the fpangled sky, the filver lyre.
Great Source of Day! beft image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide
From world to world the vital ocean round,
On Nature write, with every beam, His praife!
The thunder rolls-be hufh'd the proftrate World,
While cloud to cloud returns the folemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye Hills! ye moffy Rocks
Retain the found! the broad responsive low,
Ye Vallies, raife! for the Great Shepherd reigns,
And his unfuff'ring kingdom yet will come.
Ye Woodlands all, awake! a boundless fong
Burit from the Groves; and, when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweeteft of birds! fweet Philomela, charm
The lift'ning fhades, and teach the night His praife.
Ye, chief, from whom the whole creation fmiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! in fwarming cities vast,
Affembled Men! to the deep organ join
The long-refounding voice, oft' breaking clear,
At folemn paufes, through the fwelling base,
And as each mingling flame encreases each,
In one united ardour raise to Heaven!
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every facred grove;
There let the fhepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting Seraph, and the Poet's lyre,
Still fing the God of Seafons as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the bloffom blows, the Summer ray
Ruffets the plain, infpiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rifes in the black'ning East,
Be my tongue mute, my Fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!
Should Fate command me to the fartheft verge Of the green earth, to diftant barb'rous climes, Rivers unknown to fong, where first the fun Gilds Indian mountains, or his fetting beam Flames on th' Atlantic Ifles, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever prefent, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full!
And where he vital breathes there must be joy,
When even at laft the folemn hour fhall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rifing wonders fing. I cannot go
Where univerfal Love not fimiles around,
Suftaining all yon orbs, and all their funs,
From feeming evils ftill educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progreffion. But I lose
Myfelf in Him, in Light Ineffable!
Come, then, expreffive Silence! muse his praise.
"Mark it Cefario, it is true and plain,
"The fpinfters and the knitters in the fun,
"And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, "Do use to chant it. It is filly, footh,
"And dallies with the innocence of love,
"Like the old age."
SHAKESPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.
FAR in the windings of a vale,
Faft by a fhelt ring wood,
The fafe retreat of health and peace,
An humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye:
Whofe only with on earth was now
To fee her bleft-and die.
The fofteft blush that Nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek:
Such orient colour fmiles through Heav'n, When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn
This charmer of the plains:
That fun who bids her diamond blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.
Long had the fill'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair;
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not fhe was fair.
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A foul devoid of art;
And from whole eye, ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveal'd,
For neither bolom lodg'd a wifh
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
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