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Salvation! O, salvation.

The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole:
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss return to reign.

THE RAINBOW.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach unfold

Thy form to please me so, As when I dream'd of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?

When science from creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

THE WORM.

TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm:
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestow'd.

The sun, the moon, the stars he made To all his creatures free;

And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive:
O! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

EPITAPH

ON MARY, THE WIFE OF THE REV. W. MASON.

TAKE, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear;
Take that best gift, which Heaven so lately gave.
To Bristol's fount I bore, with trembling care,

Her faded form-she bow'd to taste the wave,
And died! Does youth, does beauty read the line?
Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm?
Speak, dead MARIA; breathe a strain divine-
E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm!
Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move,

And if as fair, from vanity as free,

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love; Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die,

('T was even to thee)—yet the dread path once trod, HEAVEN lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids the pure in heart behold their GOD.

THE PARISH PRIEST.

A PARISH Priest was of the pilgrim train,
An awful, reverend, and religious man;
His

eye diffused a venerable grace,

And charity itself was in his face.

Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor,
As God had clothed his own ambassador ;
For such on earth his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense,
And made almost a sin of abstinence:
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see;
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charm'd.
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears,
A music more melodious than the spheres;
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.

He bore his great commission in his look,
But sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven and pains of hell,
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;

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