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ADAM'S MORNING HYMN.

BY MILTON.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! thine this univerfal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair! thyfelf how wond'rous then!
Unfpeakable, who fitt'ft above the heav'ns,
To us invifible, or dimly feen

In thefe thy loweft works; yet thefe 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 heav'n,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him firft, him last, him midft, and without end,
Faireft of stars, laft in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'ft the fmiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praife him in thy fphere,
While day arifes, that fweet hour of prime.
Thou fun, of this great world both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praife,
In thy eternal courfe, both when thou climb'ft,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'ft.
Moon, that now meet't the orient fun, now Ay'st
With the fix'd ftars, 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 quaternian run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,

And nourish all things; let your ceafelefs change
Vary to our great Maker ftill new praise.
Ye mifts and exhalations that now rife
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the fun 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 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 praife.
Join voices, all ye living fouls; ye birds,
That finging up to heaven's gate afcend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praife.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and ftately 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 praife.
Hail, univerfal Lord! be bounteous still,
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Difperfe it as now light difpels the dark.

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YE fhepherds fo chearful and gay,

Whofe flocks never carelessly roam ! Should Corydon's happen to stray, Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse 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 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 ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn!

-I have bade my dear Phillis farewel.

Since Phillis vouchfaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lofe 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 penfively here?
O! why did I conie 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 fo
'Twas with pain that the faw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;

So fweetly the bade me adieu,

I thought that the bade me return.

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 1 bear,
And my folace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whole murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are fhaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep. I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with mols, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there feen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beach's more beautiful green,

But with fweet-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 fhe might like to retire To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear: Not a fhrub that I heard her admire, But I hafted and planted it there.

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