Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we eavy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,

And blefs our humbler lot.

IX.

Our portion is not large indeed,
But then, how little do we need!
For Nature's calls are few:

In this the art of living lies,

To want no more than may fuffice,
And make that little do.

X.

We'll therefore relifh with content
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For if our stock be very finall,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
XI.

To be refign'd, when ills betide,
Patient, when favours are deny'd,

And pleas'd with favours giv',
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incenfe of the heart

Whose fragrance fmells to heav'n.
XII.

We'll afk no long protracted treat
(Since winter life is feldom fweet);

But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arife,

Nor grudge our fons with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

XIII.

Thus hand in hand throngh life we'll
Its checker'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious fteps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:
XIV.

go,

While Confcience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath:
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN.

TH

BY MILTON.

HESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! thine this univerfal frame,

Thus wondrous fair! thylelf how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who fitt'st above the heav'ns,

To us invifible, or dimly feen

In thefe thy lowell works; yet these 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 first, bim laft, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of ftars, 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 soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praife
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'it,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'k,
Moon, that now meet'ft the orient fun, now fly'lt
With the fix'd stars, 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 quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,

And nourish all things; let your ceafelefs change
Vary to our great Maker ftill new praife.

Ye mifts and exhalations that now rife
From hill or ftreaming lake, dufky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy fkirts 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,
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 praise.
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 praile
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, morn or even,

To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my fong, and taught his praise.
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,

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 so 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.