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What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun,
That more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away ; For God is paid when man receives :
To enjoy is to obey,
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
When thousand worlds are round,
Let not this weak unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see ; That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath ; O lead me, wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun
To thee, whose temple is all space ;
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ;
All nature's incense rise!
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
L APPY the man, whose wish and care 11 A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed ; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die,
Tell where I lie.
ERE rests a Woman, Good without pretence, 11 Blest with plain Reason, and with sober Sense; No Conquests she, but o'er her Self, desir'd, No Arts essay'd, but not to be admir'd : Passion and Pride were to her Soul unknown; Convinc'd that Virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so compos'd a Mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined, Heaven, as its purest Gold, by Tortures tried ; The Saint sustain'd it, but the Woman died.
1 In St. Margaret's Church, Westminster.
A SNOW SCENE.
1 From all the livid east, or piercing north,
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
A HYMN ON THE SEASONS.
THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
1 Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer-months With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year. And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.