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The long-resounding Voice, oft-breaking clear,
At folemn Pauses, thro' the swelling Bass;
And, as each mingling Flame increases each.
In one united Ardor rise to I leaven.
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 fing the God of Seasons as they roil.
For me, when I forget the darling Theme,
Whether the Blossom blows, the Summer Ray
Ruslets 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 fartheft Verge
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 Ifies ; 'tis nought to me:
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void Waste as in the City full ;
And where He vital spreads there must be Joy.
When even at last the folemn Hour shall come,
And wing my mystic Flight to future Worlds,
I chearful will obey ; there, with new Powers,
Will rising Wonders fing; I cannot go
Where universal Love not smiles around,
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
Myfelf in Him, in Light ineffable !
Come then, expressive Silence, muse His Praise.
The Symphony of the Spring.
-Up-springs the Lark,
Shrill-voic'd and loud, the Messenger of Morn;
yet the Shadows Aly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning Clouds, and from their Haunts
Calls up the tuneful Nations. Every Cople
Deep-tangled, Tree irregular, and Bush,
Bending with dewy Moisture o'er the Heads
Of the coy Quirifters that lodge within,
Are prodigal of Harmony. The Thrush
And Wood Lark, o'er the kind contending Throng
Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest Length
Of Notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in Thought
Elate, to make her Night excel their Day.
The Blackbird whistles from the thorny Brake;
The mellow Bull-finch answers from the Grove :
Nor are the Linnets, o'er the flowering Furze
Pour'd out profusely, filent. Join'd to these
Innumerous Songsters, in the freshening Shade
Of new sprung Leaves, their Modulations mix
Mellifluous. The Jay, the Rook, the Daw,
And each harsh Pipe discordant heard alone,
Aid the full Concert: While the Stock Dove breathes
A inelancholy Murmur thro' the Whole.
The Dawn of Summer's Dar.
HITE break the Clouds
With quicken'd Step, Brown Night retires. Young Day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny Prospect wide. The dripping Rock, the Mountain's misty Top Swell on the Sight, and brighten with the Dawn. Blue, thro' the Dusk, the sinoaking Currents shine ; And from the bladed Field the fearful Hare Limps aukward; while along the Foreft Glade The wild Deer trip, and often turning gaze At early Passenger. Music awakes, The native Voice of undissembled Joy ; And thick around the woodland Hymns arise. Rous'd by the Cock, the foon-clad Shepherd leaves His mosiy Cottage, where with Peace he dwells; And from the crouded Fold, in Order, drives His Flock, to taste the Verdure of the Morn.
UT yonder comes the powerful King of Day,
Rejoicing in the East. The lesiening Cloud The kindling Azure, and the Mountain's Brow Illum'd with fluid Gold, his near Approach Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all, Allant the Dew-bright Earth, and colour'd Air, He looks in boundless Majesty abroad : And sheds the shining Day, that burnish'd plays On Rocks, and Hills, and Towers, and wandering
Streams, High-gleaming from afar. Prime Chearer Light!
Of all material Beings first, and best!
Eflux divine ! Nature's resplendent Robe !
Without whose vesting Beauty all were wrapt
In unessential Gloom ; and thou, O Sun !
Soul of surrounding Worlds ! in whom best seen
Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee ?
Without whose quickening Glance their cumbrous
Were brute unlovely Mass, inert and dead,
And not as now the green Abodes of Life ;
How many Forms of Being wait on thee !
Inhaling Spirit; from th' unfetter'd Mind,
By thee fublim’d, down to the daily Race,
The mixing Myriads of thy setting Beam.
The vegetable World is also thine,
Parent of Seasons! round thy beaming Car,
High-seen, the Seasons lead, in sprightly Dance
Harmonious knit, the rosy-finger's Hours,
The Zephyrs floating loose, the timely Rains,
Of Bloom ätherial the light-footed Dews,
And soften'd into Joy the surly Storms.
These, in succeflive Turn, with lavish Hand,
Shower every Beauty, every Fragrance shower,
Herbs, Flowers, and Fruits ; 'till kindling at thy
From Land, to Land is flush'd the vernal Year.
The very dead Creation, from thy Touch, Altumes a Mimic Life. By thee refin'd,
In brighter Mazes, the relucent Stream
Plays o'er the Mead. The Precipice abrupt,
Projecting Horror on the blacken'd Flood,
Softens at thy Return. The Desart joys
Wildly, thro' all his melancholy Bounds.
Rude Ruins glitter; and the briny Deep,
Seen from some pointed Promontory's Top,
Far to the blue Horizon's utmost Verge,
Restless, reflects a floating Gleam. But This,
And all the much-transported Muse can sing,
Are to thy Beauty, Dignity, and Use,
Unequal far, great delegated Source
Of Light, and Life, and Grace, and Joys below!
How shall I then attempt to sing of Him, Who, Light himself, in uncreated Light Invested deep, dwells awfully retir'd From mortal Eye, or Angel's purer Ken i Whose single Smile has, from the first of Time, Filld, overflowing, all those Lamps of Heaven, That beam for ever thro' the boundless Sky : But, should he hide his Face, th' astonish'd Sun, And all th' extinguish'd Stars, would loosening reel Wide from their Spheres, and Chaos come again.
And yet was every fault'ring Tongue of Man, Almighty Father ! filent in thy Praise, Thy Works themselves would raise a general Voice, Even in the Depth of folitary Woods, By human Foot untrod, proclaim thy Power, And to the Quire celestial Thee resound, Th' eternal Cause, Support, and End of all!