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AN

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.

65 Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round; On Nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world; 70 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound: the broad responsive lowe, Ye valleys raise; for the GREAT SHEPHERD reigns; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 75

Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Bursts from the groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 80 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, 85 At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to heaven.

Or if you rather chuse the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove;
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll.

For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east;
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 100
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 't is nought to me:
Since God is ever present, ever felt, s. 105
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 110
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go
Where UNIVERSAL Love not smiles around,

115

Sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in LIGHT INEFFABLE!
Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise.

ON SOLITUDE.

Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem ;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;

A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landskip swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thiné.

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage, and swain;
Plain Innocence in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head;
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:

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About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell;
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

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ÆTHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,'

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid,

With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died for love, these sweet complainings part

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