ON THE WORKS OF CREATION.
BE
EAUTY complete, and majefty divine,
In all thy works, ador'd Creator, shine.
Where'er I caft my wond'ring eyes around,
The God I seek in every part is found.
Pursuing thee, the flow'ry fields I trace,
And read thy name on every spire of grass.
I follow thee thro' many a lonely shade,
And find thee in the folitary glade.
I meet thee in the kind refreshing gale,
That gently paffes thro' the dewy vale.
The pink, the jeff'min, and the purple rose,
Perfum'd by thee, their fragrant leaves difclofe.
The feather'd choir that welcome in the spring,
By thee were taught their various notes to fing.
By thee the morning in her crimson veft,
And ornaments of golden clouds is drest.
The fun, in all his fplendor, wears thy beams,
And drinks in light from thy exhaustless streams.
The moon reveals thee by her glimm❜ring ray;
Unnumber'd ftars thy glorious paths display.
Amidft the folemn darkness of the night,
The thoughts of God my mufing soul delight.
Thick fhades and night thy dread pavilion form,
In ftate thou rid'ft upon the flying storm;
While thy ftrong hand its fierceft rage restrains,
And holds the wild unmanag'd winds in reins.
What sparklings of thy majefty appear,
When thro' the firmament fwift lightnings glare!
When peals of thunder fill the fkies around,
I hear thy voice in the tremendous found.
But, oh! how small a part is known of thee,
From all thy works immense variety?
Whatever mortal men perfection name,
Thou, in an infinite degree, doft claim.
And while I here thy fainteft fhadows traces
I pine to see the glories of thy face;
Where beauty in its never changing height,
And uncreated excellence fhines bright.
When shall the heavenly scene, without controul,
Open in dazzling triumph on my foul?
My powers with all their ardor fhall adore,
And languish for terrestrial charms no more.
ON A CLERGYMAN's GAMING AT
BATH.
D'
ID Chrift or his apostles ever play?
Or did they rather chufe to preach and pray ?
If you from them your facred power derive,
From them take alfo holy rules to live;
Declare yourself an enemy to vice,
To things that give offence---to box and dice,
If you love tables, Mofes will produce
Tables more proper for a Levite's use.
Q 2
ON A LATE CORONATION.
F
ROM finish'd prayer the flock disperse apace,
And each glad foot forfakes the dreary place;
The hooded prebend plods along before,
And the laft verger claps the founding door.
In thoughtful pensiveness I ftray'd alone,
In the dark temple, when they all were gone;
No noise invades my ear, no murmuring breath,
Not one low whisper in the hall of death.
No trampling found swims o'er the filent floor,
But the flow clock, that counts the fliding hour.
Lead on, my mufe! while trembling I effay
To trace the footstep thro' the cloifter'd way.
Caft a thick veil about thy radiant head,
And lead me thro' the dwellings of the dead.
Where the still banner, faded and decay'd,
Nods pendent o'er its mould'ring master's head.
Where love's transform'd to marble, angels mourn,
And weeping cherubs seem to fob in stone.
To mount their thrones---here monarchs bend their
Oe'r pavements where their predeceffors lay. [way,
O fons of empire, who, in pompous hour,
Attend to wear the cumb'rous robes of power,
When ye proceed along the crouded way,
Think, there's a fecond visit here to pay;
Now, purple pride, and fhouting joy appears,
Then, black proceffions, and attending tears;
And when in ftate on buried kings ye tread,
And fwelling robes fweep o'er th' unnotic'd dead,
While, honor'd thus, ye caft your eyes around,
Think then, O think, ye tread on treach'rous ground.
Tho' firm the chequer'd pavement feems to be,
'Twill furely open, and give way to thee;
And while the crouding lords addrefs you near,
Th' anointing prelate, and the kneeling peer;
While with obfequious diligence they bow,
And spread the careful honors o'er thy brow;
While the high-rais'd spectators shout around, -
And the long ifles and vaulted roofs refound;
Then snatch a fudden thought, and turn thy head
From the loud living to the filent dead.
With careful eye the neighb'ring tombs survey,
These will inftruct thee better far than they;
Thou from vaft crouds thy prefent power may'ft fee,
But these inform thee what thou'rt fure to be;
Think thefe, like thee, were once ordain'd to wear
Imperial robes, and fill the antique chair.
One wore the weighty diadem, like thee
Receiv'd the folemn kiss and bended knee;
Heard the fame loud applaufes rend the sky,
And lastly, think they dy'd, as thou must die.
Like DAMOCLES thou fit'ft, a dangerous fhow,
His menace hung above, but thine below:
The fate of all thy brother monarchs fcan,
And own, tho' ftil'd a God, thou'rt ftill a man.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMAS
ROWE.
BY MRS. ROWE.
N what foft language fhall my thoughts get free, My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? Ye muses, graces, all ye gentle train Of weeping loves, affift the pensive strain ! But why fhould I implore your moving art? 'Tis but to speak the dictates of my heart. And all that knew the charming youth will join Their friendly fighs, and pious tears to mine: For all that knew his merit must confess, In grief for him there can be no excess.
His foul was form'd to act each glorious part Of life, unftain'd with vanity, or art.. No thought within his gen'rous mind had birth, But what he might have own'd to heaven and earth. Practis'd by him, each virtue grew more bright, And fhone with more than its own native light. Whatever noble warmth could recommend The juft, the active, and the conftant friend, Was all his own- -but oh! a dearer name, And fofter ties my endless forrow claim; Loft in despair, diftracted, and forlorn, The lover I, and tender husband mourn. Whate'er to fuch fuperior worth was due, Whate'er excess the fondeft paffion knew,
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