This tenement of dust: thy stretching sight
Surveys th' harmonious principles, that move
In beauteous rack and order, to inform
This cask, and animated mass of clay.
Nor are the prospects of thy wondrous sight
To this terrestrial part of man confin'd;
But shoot into his soul, and there discern
The first materials of unfashion'd thought,
Yet dim and undigested, till the mind,
Big with the tender images, expands,
And, swelling, labours with th' ideal birth.

Where-e'er I move, thy cares pursue my feet
Attendant. When I drink the dews of sleep,
Stretch'd on my downy bed, and there enjoy
A sweet forgetfulness of all my toils,
Unseen, thy sovereign presence guards my sleep,
Wafts all the terrours of my dreams away,
Sooths all my soul, and softens my repose.
Before conception can employ the tongue,
And mould the ductile images to sound;
Before imagination stands display'd,
Thine eye the future eloquence can read,
Yet unarray'd with speech. Thoa, mighty Lord!
Hast moulded man from his congenial dust,
And spoke him into being; while the clay,
Beneath thy forming hand, leap'd forth, inspir'd,
And started into life: through every part,
At thy command, the wheels of motion play'd.
But such exalted knowledge leaves below
And drops poor man from its superior sphere.
In vain, with reason's bailast, would he try
To stem th' unfathomable depth; his bark
O'er-sets, and founders in the vast abyss.

Then whither shall the rapid fancy run,
Though in its full career, to speed my flight
From thy unbounded presence? which, alone,
Fills all the regions and extended space
Beyond the bounds of nature! Whither, Lord!
Shall my unrein'd imagination rove,
To leave behind thy spirit, and out-fly

Its influence, which, with brooding wings, out-spread
Hatch'd unfledg'd Nature from the dark profound.
If mounted on my towering thoughts I climb
Into the Heaven of Heavens; I there behold
The blaze of thy unclouded majesty !
In the pure empyrean thee I view,
High thron'd above all height, thy radiant shrine,
Throng'd with the prostrate seraphs, who receive
Beatitude past utterance! If I plunge
Down to the gloom of Tartarus profound,
There too I find thee, in the lowest bounds
Of Erebus, and read thee, in the scenes
Of complicated wrath: I see thee clad
In all the majesty of darkness there.

If, on the ruddy morning's purple wings
Up-born, with indefatigable course,

I seek the glowing borders of the East,
Where the bright Sun, emergent from the deeps,
With his first glories gilds the sparkling seas,
And trembles o'er the waves; ev'n there, thy hand
Shall through the watery desert guide my course,
And o'er the broken surges pave my way,
While on the dreadful whirles I hang secure,
And mock the warring Ocean. If, with hopes,
As fond as false, the darkness I expect
To hide, and wrap me in its mantling shade,
Vain were the thought: for thy unbounded ken
Darts through the thickening gloom, and pries
through all

VOL. XII.

The palpable obscure. Before thy eyes,
The vanqnish'd night throws off her dusky shrowd,
And kindles into day: the shade, and light,
To man still various, but the same to thee.

On thee, is all the structure of my frame
Dependant. Lock'd within the silent womb,
Sleeping I lay, and ripening to my birth;
Yet, Lord, thy out-stretch'd arm preserv'd me
Before I mov'd to entity, and trod [there;
The verge of being. To thy hallow'd name
I'll pay due honours; for thy mighty hand
Built this corporeal fabric, when it laid
The ground-work of existence. Hence, I read
The wonders of thy art This frame I view
With terrour and delight; and wrapt in both,
I startle at myself. My bones, unform'd
As yet, nor hardening from the viscous parts,
But blended with th' unanimated mass,
Thy eye distinctly view'd; and while I lay
Within the earth, imperfect, nor perceiv'd
The first faint dawn of life, with ease survey'd
The vital glimmerings of the active seeds,
Just kindling to existence; and beheld
My substance scarce material. In thy book,
Was the fair model of this structure drawn,
Where every part, in just connection join'd,
Compos'd and perfected th' harmonious piece,
Ere the dim speck of being learn'd to stretch
Its ductile form, or entity had known
To range and wanton in an ampler space.

How dear, how rooted in my inmost soul, Are all thy counsels, and the various ways Of thy eternal providence! The sum So boundless and immense, it leaves behind The low account of numbers! and out-flies All that imagination e're conceiv'd, Less numerous are the sands that crowd the shores, The barriers of the Ocean. When I rise From my soft bed, and softer joys of sleep, I rise to thee. Yet lo! the impious slight Thy mighty wonders. Shall the sons of vice Elude the vengeance of thy wrathful hand And mock thy lingering thunder, which with-holds Its forky terrours from their guilty heads? Thou great tremendous God!-Avaunt, and fly, All ye who thirst for blood.-For, swoln with pride, Each haughty wretch blasphemes thy sacred name, And bellows his reproaches to affront Thy glorious Majesty. Thy foes I hate Worse than my own, O Lord! Explore my soul, See if a flaw or stain of sin infects

My guilty thoughts. Then, lead me in the way That guides my feet to thy own Heaven and thee.

PSALM CXLIV.

PARAPHRASED.

My soul, in raptures rise to bless the Lord,
Who taught my hands to draw the fatal sword;
Led by his arm, undaunted I appear

In the first ranks of death, and front of war.
He taught me first the pointed spear to wield,
And mow the glorious harvest of the field.
By him inspir'd, from strength to strength I past,
Plung'd through the troops, and laid the battle

In him my hopes I centre and repose, [waste.
He guards my life, and shields me from my foes.
C c

Oh! with what joy the wretches yield their breath,
And pant in bitterness of soul for death?
As a rich prize, the distant bliss they crave,
And find the glorious treasure in the grave.
Why is the wretch condemn'd without relief,
To combat woe, and tread the round of grief,
Whom in the toils of fate his God has bound,
And drawn the line of miseries around?

When nature calls for aid, my sighs intrude,
My tears prevent my necessary food;
Like a full stream o'ercharg'd, my sorrows flow,
In bursts of anguish, and a tide of woe;
For now the dire affliction which I fled,
Pours like a roaring torrent on my head.

My terrours still the phantom view'd, and wrought
The dreadful image into every thought:
At length pluck'd down, the fatal stroke I feel,
And lose the fancy'd in the real ill.

JOB, CHAP. XXV.

PARAPHRASED.

THEN will vain man complain and murmur still, And stand on terms with his Creator's will? • Shall this high privilege to clay be given? Shall dust arraign the providence of Heaven? With reason's line the boundless distance scan; Oppose Heaven's awful Majesty to man. To what a length his vast dominions run? How far beyond the journeys of the Sun? He hung yon' golden balls of light on high, And lanch'd the planets through' the liquid sky: To rolling worlds he mark'd the certain space, Fixt and sustain'd the elemental peace.

Unnumber'd as those worlds his armies move, And the gay legions guard his realms above; High o'er th' ethereal plains, the myriads rise, And pour their flaming ranks along the skies: From their bright arms incessant splendours stream, And the wide azure kindles with the gleam.

To this low world he bids the light repair, Down through the gulfs of undulating air: For man he taught the glorious Sun to roll, From his bright barrier to his western goal.

How then shall man, thus insolently proud, Plead with his Judge, and combat with his God? How from his mortal mother can he come, Unstain'd from sin, untinctur'd from the womb? The Lord from his sublime empyreal throne, As a dark globe, regards the silver Moon. Those stars, that grace the wide celestial plain, Are but the humblest sweepings of his train; Dim are the brightest splendours of the sky; And the Sun darkens in Jehovah's eye. But does not sin diffuse a fouler stain, And thicker darkness cloud the soul of man? Shall he the depths of endless wisdom know? The short-liv'd sovereign of the world below? His frail original confounds his boast, [dust. Sprung from the ground, and quicken'd from the

THE SONG OF MOSES,

IN THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER OF EXODUS, PARA-
PHRASED.

THEN to the Lord, the vast triumphant throng
Of Israel's sons, with Moses, rais'd the song.

To God our grateful accents will we raise, And every tongue shall celebrate his praise: Behold display'd the wonders of his might; Behold the Lord triumphant in the fight! With what immortal fame and glory grac'd! What trophies rais'd amid the watery waste! How did his power the steeds and riders sweep Ingulf'd in heaps, and whelm'd beneath the deep? Whom shall we fear, while he, Heaven's awful Unsheaths for Israel his avenging sword? His outstretch'd arm, and tutelary care, Guarded and sav'd us in the last despair: His mercy eas'd us from our circling pains, Unbound our shackles, and unlock'd our chains, To him our God, our fathers' God, I'll rear A sacred temple, and adore him there, With vows and incense, sacrifice and prayer.

[Lord,

The Lord commands in war; his matchless might Hangs out and guides the balance of the fight: By him the war the mighty leaders form, And teach the hovering tumult where to storm. His name, O Israel, Heaven's Eternal Lord, For ever honour'd, reverenc'd, and ador'd.

When to the fight, from Ægypt's fruitful soil, Pour'd forth in myriads all the sons of Nile; The Lord o'erthrew the courser and the car, Sunk Pharaoh's pride, and overwhelm'd his war. Beneath th' encumber'd deeps his legions lay, For many a league impurpling all the sea: The chiefs, and steeds, and warriours whirl'd around, Lay midst the roarings of the surges drown'd.

Who shall thy power, thou mighty God, withstand,

And check the force of thy victorious hand?
Thy hand, which red with wrath in terrour rose,
To crush that day thy proud Ægyptian foes.
Struck by that hand, their drooping squadrons fall,
Crowding in death; one fate o'erwhelms them all.

Soon as thy anger, charg'd with vengeance, came,
They sunk like stubble crackling in the flame.
At thy dread voice the summon'd billows crowd,
And a still silence lulls the wondering flood:
Roll'd up, the crystal ridges strike the skies,
Waves peep o'er waves, and seas o'er seas arise.
Around in heaps the listening surges stand,
Mute and observant of the high command.
Congeal'd with fear attends the watery train,
Rous'd from the secret chambers of the main.

With savage joy the sons of Ægypt cry'd, (Vast were their hopes, and boundless was their "Let us pursue those fugitives of Nile, [pride) This servile nation, and divide the spoil : And spread so wide the slaughter, till their blood Dyes with a stronger red the blushing flood. Oh! what a copious prey their hosts afford, To glut and fatten the devouring sword!"

As thus the yawning gulph the boasters pass'd, At thy command rush'd forth the rapid blast. Then, at the signal given, with dreadful sway, In one huge heap roll'd down the roaring sea; And now the disintangled waves divide, Unlock their folds, and thaw the frozen tide. The deeps alarm'd call terribly from far The loud, embattled surges to the war; Till her proud sons astonish'd Ægypt found, Cover'd with billows, and in tempests drown'd. What god can emulate thy power divine, Or who oppose his miracles to thine? When joyful we adore thy glorious name, Thy trembling foes confess their fear and shame.

Because his thundering hand in war

Has check'd the swelling tide
Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.

But by sweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,
And scorns the laurels of the war,

For those that crown the Muse.

There in the most retir'd retreats,

He sets his charming song,

To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus strung.

Rank'd by thy sons, Imperial Rome,
Among the poet's quire,

Above the reach of Envy's hand

I safely may aspire.

Thou sacred Muse, whose artful hand
Can teach the bard to sing;
Can animate the golden lyre,
And wake the living string:

Thou, by whose mighty power, may sing,
In unaccustom'd strains,

The silent fishes in the floods,

As on their banks the swans:

To thee I owe my spreading fame,

That thousands, as they gaze,

Make me their wonder's common theme,
And object of their praise.

If first I struck the Lesbian lyre,
No fame belongs to me;

I owe my honours, when I please,
(If e'er I please) to thee.

ON THE APPROACHING CONGRESS OF

CAMBRAY

WRITTEN IN 1721.

;

Ye patriots of the world, whose cares combin'd Consult the public welfare of mankind, One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait, And Europe in suspense attend her fate, Which turns on your great councils; nor refuse To hear the strains of the prophetic Muse; Who sees those councils with a generous care Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage of war She sees new verdure all the plain o'erspread, Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled. The fields of death a softer scene disclose, And Ceres smiles where iron harvests rose. The bleating flocks along the bastion pass, And from the awful ruins crop the grass. Freed from his fears, each unmolested swain, In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain; Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound, And sees the camp with all the seasons crown'd. Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear; Each furrow glitters with the pride of war ; The fields resound and tinkle as they break, And the keen falchion rings against the rake; At rest beneath the hanging ramparts laid, He sings securely in the dreadful shade.

Hark! o'er the seas, the British lions roar Their monarch's fame to every distant shore :

Swift on their canvass wings his navies go, Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow; Their sails within the arctic circle rise, Led by the stars that gild the northern skies; Tempt frozen seas, nor fear the driving blast, But swell exulting o'er the hoary waste; O'er the wide ocean hold supreme command, And active commerce spread through every land; Or with full pride to southern regions run, To distant worlds, on t'other side the Sun; And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales [sails. Perfume the smiling waves, and stretch the bellying See! the proud merchant seek the precious shore. And trace the winding veins of glittering ore; Low in the earth his wondering eyes behold Th' imperfect metal ripening into gold. The mountains tremble with alternate rays, And cast at once a shadow and a blaze: Streak'd o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around, Gleam o'er the soil, and gild the tinkling ground; Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels come, And in proud triumph bring an India home.

Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick
spread,

And with thy olives crown his laurel'd head.
Come; in thy most distinguish'd charms appear;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.
The fight stands still when Brunswick bids it cease,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace;
Like awful justice, sits superior lord,

To poise the balance, or to draw the sword;
In due suspense the jarring realms to keep,
And hush the tumults of the world to sleep.

Now with a brighter face, and nobler ray,
Shine forth, thou source of light, and god of day;
Say, didst thou ever in thy bright career
Light up before a more distinguish'd year?
Through all thy journeys past thou canst not see
A perfect image of what this shall be:
Scarce the Platonic year shall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.

A

THE FABLE OF THE

YOUNG MAN AND HIS CAT.

HAPLESS youth, whom fates averse had drove To a strange passion, and preposterous love, Long'd to possess his puss's spotted charms, And hug the tabby beauty in his arms. To what odd whimsies love inveigles men? Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then. Rack'd with his passion, and in deep despair, The youth to Venus thus addrest his prayer.

O queen of beauty, since thy Cupid's dart Has fir'd my soul, and rankles in my heart; Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame, From thee at least a remedy I claim; If once, to bless Pigmalion's longing arms, The marble soften'd into living charms; And warm with life the purple current ran In circling streams through every flinty vein; If, with his own creating hands display'd, He hugg'd the statue, and embrac'd a maid; And with the breathing image fir'd his heart, The pride of Nature, and the boast of Art: Hear my request, and crown my wondrous flame, The same its nature, be thy gift the same;