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Of ruin self-induced and mercy lost
So, warnd of God, from cities long grown deaf
(steps Grew dark with wings; earth with unnumber'd Sounded; bird, beast in long procession sought Their destined refuge. With his kindred train The builder first ascended. From the gloom Of congregating clouds put forth, a Hand * The entrance closed. The darkness cover'd all, Deathlike, unsunn'd, as though primeval night Resumed her empire. Torrents from the skies Plunged prone in solid downfall. Earth her depths Burst. Thronging on the summits of the hills, As seamen crowded on the mainmast's top While at each billow deeper sinks the ship And deeper, nations their despairing eyes Roll'd round; from every surge in lessening orb Shrunk; their wild arms uplifted; stretch'd their
necks Above the rising waves, and shriek'd their last.
*“ They went in unto Noah into the ark, and the Lord shut him in." Gen, vii. 15, 16.
Father of earth and heaven, Almighty Lord, Whose span confines infinitude *, whose eye Surveys eternal ages at a glance; How long, in crowding millions round thy throne On balanced wings, while spirits pure thy nod Await, in bliss most blessed when Thou deignest To speak thy mandate, and their service use; How long shall man with cold reluctant heart Ponder the truths thy word, thy works declare? Yet here, even here, in this apostate vale Still Thou hast many servants. But afar From thy abode the vain, the selfish throng On Folly's glittering stream securely floats, Or toils through storms for honour, power, or gold. Thou art not in their thoughts, nor in their ways; This to his pleasure turns, this to his farm, That to his merchandise. The globe rolls round; And still another and another spring Beholds the chasers urge the blind pursuit, Nearer, yet nearer, to the gloom that hangs In misty volumes on the horizon's verge, And hides the gulf wide-yawning for its prey. Meanwhile they feast, they dance; the jocund harp Rings at their board; the viol, tabret, horn, And lute symphonious to the choral lay Pour the full tide of harmony : but Thee They slight, nor mark the wonders of thy hand; Yet name they not their God ?—What name they
more? Thy holy name the town, the country hears In ceaseless repetition ; day and night,
wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined.
Business and leisure, indigence and wealth,
REV. T. GISBORNE.
ADDRESS TO THE MOON.
FROST-LOVING Queen, At winter's midnight how intense the grace Which thy pure globe displays ! The sullen sun, How fled he discontent, a little curve His hasty march describing, a few hours Quenching his feeble beam! but thy clear orb Delights to linger o'er a frozen world. How sweetly rose it o'er yon woody hill, How gaily smiled upon the tranquil flood, Seen from the bridge that overstrides the vale, And now how glows it in the midst of heaven! Methinks, I feel thy beam. My heart at least Is warmd, is melted by thy sovereign ray. And oh! like thee, that every friend we own Were most indulgent in an hour like this. Beautiful art thou; and if thou art fair, How fair is He whose wonder-working hand Thy beauty framed! If to thy lovely orb I almost bow and hail thee as divine, What adoration would my soul o'erflow, Might I the cloud that curtains Him around Withdraw, and see him beauteous as he is ! Fountain of elegance, unseen thyself, What limit owns Thy beauty, when thy works Seem to possess, to faculties like mine, Perfection infinite? The merest speck Of animated matter, to the eye That studiously surveys the wise design, Is a full volume of abundant art. If to the spot invisible we strain Our aching sight, and with microptic tube
Bring it at last within our feeble ken,
LOVE OF WOODLAND SCENES.
0, COULD I wake the lyre Like him *, who, lingering on the banks of Ouse, To nature faithful, and to nature's King, Pursues the noblest of poetic aims, That only aim which gives the poet's lay A title to the meed of genuine praise; Who, blending in his song with honest art The faithful monitor's and poet's care, Seeks to delight that he may mend mankind, And while he captivates exalt the soul ! He sweeps the lyre: one hand excites the strings, Whence starts each glowing image that presents Perfect as life the charms that deck the face Of earth; the other, with symphonious touch, Rouses the hallowed chords that swell the heart, And lift it to its God. 0, were my notes, Ye woodlands, with his sacred fervour warmed, Sweet as his music; to the slave whom pride