Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Sound His stupendous praise: whose greater voice Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, Should fate command me to the farthest 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 the Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes there must be joy. Myself in Him, in light ineffable! Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. Thomson. ON THE ATTRIBUTES OF GOD. "ON Me, on Me," Exclaim'd the Son of GOD, "on Me alone And thro' the middle of the eastern gates, Howl'd hideous; touch'd by Him, the palsied hand, Dr. Roberts. LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build; but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah, no! She forgets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride,The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ; The treasures are squandered again. And here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board; But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah, sweetly they slumber; nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace, is the watch-word, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd ; And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both, when He rose to the skies. H. Knowles.. A HYMN. FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from Error's chain. What tho' the spicy breezes Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we, whose souls are lighted Has learnt Messiah's name ! Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, It spreads from pole to pole: |