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ADAM'S MORNING HYMN.

BY MILTON.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,

Almighty! thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair! thyself how wond'rous then! Unspeakable, who site'st above the heav'ns, To us invisible, or diinly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought and pow'r divine. Speak ye who best can tell, ye tons of light, Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs And choral syinphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heav'l), On earth join all ye creatures to extol Hini first, him laft, him midit, and without end, Fairest of stars, last 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 hiny in thy tphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou fun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge hini thy greater ; found his praise, In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'it, And when high noon haft gain’d, and when thou fall'it. Moon, that now meet'lt the orient fum, now iy'ft With the fix'd ars, fix'd in their orb that fiies; And

ye

five other wand'ring fires that move In mystic dance, not without long, resound

His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternian run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rife.
Whether to deck with cloud th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble as ye ftow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, moin or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh fade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceald,
Disperle it as how light dispels the dark.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

IN FOUR PARTS.

Written 1743

BY SHENSTONE.

Arbufta humilesque myrica.VIRG.

I. ABSENCE.

YE hepherds fo chearful and gay,

Whose 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 Phillis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; 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 ev’ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn!

I have bade iny dear Phillis farewel.

Since Phillis vouchsaf'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 past, and I figh ;

And I grieve that I prize them no more.

But why do I languish in vain ?

Why wander thus pensively here? O! why did I conie from the plain,

Where I fed on the smiles 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 fom

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart, She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern; Soʻsweetly The bade me adieu,

I thought that the bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day

To vilit fome far distant 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 ihe relic l bear, And iny

solace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whole murmur invites one to lleep; My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with Meep. I seldom have inet with a loss,

Such health do my fountains beltow; My fountains all border'd with mols,

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 with sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire

To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear : Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hafted and planted it there.

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