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Who would, in such a gloomy state remain
Longer than nature craves; when every Muse
And every blooming pleasure wait without,
To bless the wildly devious morning walk?

Section II.


How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song
The scythe lies glitt'ring in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze :
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness seem'd thron'd on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,

The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heav'n tun'd song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceas'd; all, all around is quietness..
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldly bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning-ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.

On other days, the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground

Both seat and board, screen'd from the winter's cold,
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God, not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but rev'rently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
'The morning air pure from the city's smoke,
While wand'ring slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,)
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.

Section III.



Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue,
Than ever man pronounc'd, or angels sung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine;
That thought can reach, or Science can divine;
And had I power to give that knowledge birth,
In all the speeches of the babbling earth;
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw,
When Moses gave them miracles, and law:
Yet gracious Charity, indulgent guest,

Were not thy power exerted in
my breast;
Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer :
That scorn of life would be but wild despair;
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice;
My faith were form; my eloquence were noise.
Charity, decent, modesty, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins, and gentle hand to guide,
Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride.
Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives;
And much she suffers, as she much believes.
Soft peace she brings where ever she arrives ;
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough part of peevish nature even;
And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows;
To one fixt purpose dedicates its power;
And finishing its act, exists no more.

Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and Prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live;

And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive, As through the artist's intervening glass,


eye observes the distant planets pass;

A little we discover; but allow,

That more remains unseen, than Art can show : So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,)

High as we may, we lift our reason up,

By Faith directed, and confirm'd by Hope;
Yet are we able only to survey

Dawnings of beams, and promises of day;

Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight;
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light.
But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd;

The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,

Seated sublime on his meridian throne.
Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy:
Whilst thou more happy power, fair Charity,
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office, and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame,.
Shalt still survive-

Shall stand before the host of heaven confest,
For ever blessing, and forever blest.

Section IV.


Oh! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songs
Of Luxury, the siren! not the bribes.

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave

Those ever blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature, fair Imagination culls,

To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all.
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envy'd life: though only few possess
Patrician treasures, or Imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,,
With richer treasures, and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man

Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold.
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfold: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends; but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only; for the attentive Mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home,
To find a kindred order; to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd

The world's foundations, if to these the Mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms.
Of servile custom cramp her generous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of Ignorance and Rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear;
Lo! she appears to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like Him,
Benificent and active. Thus the men

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