Might think th' infection of my förrows loud,
Had got a race of mourners on fome pregnant cloud.
This fubject the author finding to be above the years he
had when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with
what was begun, left it unfinisht.
Searching after GOD. By Mr. Watt.
But fouls that love would know thee more..
Wilt thou for ever hide, and ftand
Behind the labours of thy hand?
Thy hand unseen fuftains the poles
On which this huge creation rolls:
The starry arch proclaims thy power,
Thy pencil glows in every flower:
In thousand shapes and colours rife
Thy painted wonders to our eyes;
While beasts and birds with lab'ring throats,
Teach us a God in thousand notes.
The meanest pin in nature's frame,
Marks out some letter of thy name.
Where sense can reach or fancy rove,
From hill to hill, from field to grove,
Across the waves, around the sky,
There's not a spot, or deep, or high,
Where the Creator has not trod,
And left the footstep of a God.
But are his footsteps all that we,
Poor grov❜ling worms, must know or fee?
Thou, maker of my vital frame,
Unvail thy face, pronounce thy name,
Shine to my fight, and let the ear
Which thou haft form'd, thy language hear.
Where is thy refidence? oh, why
Doft thou avoid my searching eye,
My longing fenfe? Thou great unknown,
Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne ?
Divide, ye clouds, and let me fee
The power that gives me leave to be.
Or art thou all diffus'd abroad
Thro' boundless space, a present God,
Unfeen, unheard, yet ever near?
What fhall I do to find thee here?
Is there not fome mysterious art
To feel thy prefence at my heart?
To hear thy wifpers foft and kind,
In holy filence of the mind?
Then reft, my thoughts; nor longer roam
In queft of joy, for heaven's at home.
But, oh, thy beams of warmest love!
Sure, they were made for worlds above.
How fhall my foul her powers extend,
Beyond where time and nature end,
To reach thofe heights, thy best abode,
And meet thy kindest smiles, my God?
What fhall I do? I wait thy call;
Pronounce the word, my life, my all.
O for a wing to bear me far
Beyond the golden morning-star !
Fain wou'd I trace th' immortal way,
That leads to courts of endless day,
Where the Creator ftands confefs'd,
In his own fairest glories drefs'd.
Some fhining fpirit help me rise,
Come waft a stranger thro' the skies;
Blefs'd Jefus, meet me on the road,
Firft offspring of th' eternal God,
Thy hand fhall lead a younger fon,
Clothe me with vestures yet unknown,
And place me near my father's throne.
The WORLD a Stranger to GO D. By the fame.
NFINITE beauty, everlasting love,
How are our hearts, our thoughts, eftrang'd from
Th' eternal God furrounds us; yet we rove
In chace of airy toys, and follow as they flee.
Oh could I cry, and make the nations hear,
From north to fouth my voice should teach thy name:
I'd tell them, that they buy their joys too dear,
And pay immortal fouls for glittering duft or fame.
III.
Almighty power, break off these chains of sense,
Melt them away with love's celestial fire,
Create the world anew; let man commence
A feraph here on earth, let man to heaven afpire.
The HEBREW POET. By the fame.
This Ode reprefents the Difficulty of a juft Translation of the Pfalms of David, in all their Hebrew Glory; with an Apology for the Imitation of them in Christian Language.
[The firft Hint borrowed from Cafimire, Jeffaa quifquis, &c. Book iv. Ode 7.]
HEW me the man that dares and fings
Great David's verse to British strings:
Sublime attempt! but bold and vain
As building Babel's tower again.
The bard that climb'd to Cooper's-hill,
Reaching at Zion fham'd his skill,
And bids the fons of Albion own,
That Judah's pfalmift reigns alone.
Bleft poet! now, like gentle Thames,
He fooths our ears with filver streams;
Like his own Jordan, now he rolls,
And fweeps away our captive fouls.
Softly the tuneful fhepherd leads
The Hebrew flocks to flow'ry meads :
+ Sir John Denham who gain'd great reputation by his poem cal led Cooper's-bill, fail'd in his translation of the pfalms of David.
He marks their path with notes divine,
While fountains fpring with oil and wine.
Rivers of peace attend his fong,.
And draw their milky train along:
He jars; and lo, the flints are broke,
But honey iffues from the rock.
When kindling with victorious fire,
He shakes his lance across the lyre;
The lyre refounds unknown alarms,
And fets th' thunderer in arms.
VII.
Behold the God! th' almighty king
Ride's on a tempeft's glorious wing;
His enfigns lighten round the sky,
And moving legions found on high.
VIII.
Ten thousand cherubs wait his course,
Chariots of fire and flaming horse :
Earth trembles; and her mountains flow,
At his approach, like melting fnow.
But who those frowns of wrath can draw,
That strike heaven, earth, and hell with awe?
Red lightning from his eye-lids broke;
His voice was thunder, hail and smoke.
He fpake; the cleaving waters fied,
And ftars beheld the ocean's bed:
While the great mafter strikes his lyre,
You fee the frighted floods retire:
In heaps the frighted billows ftand,
Waiting the changes of his hand:
He leads his Ifrael thro' the fea,
And watry mountains guard their way.
Turning his hand with fovereign fweep,
He drowns all Egypt in the deep:
Then guides the tribes, a glorious band,
Thro' defarts to the promis'd land,
Here camps with wide imbattel'd force,
Here gates and bulwarks stop their course :
He storms the mounds, the bulwark falls,
The harp lyes ftrow'd with ruin'd walls.
See his broad fword flies o'er the strings,
And mows down nations with their kings:
From every chord his bolts are hurl'd,
And vengeance fmites the rebel world.
XV.
Lo, the great poet fhifts the scene,
And fhews the face of God ferene :
Truth, meekness, peace, falvation ride,
With guards of justice at his fide.
XVI.
No meaner mufe cou'd weave the light,
To form his robes divinely bright;
Or frame a crown of stars to shine
With beams for majesty divine.
Now in prophetic light he fees
Ages to come, and dark degrees:
He brings the prince of glory down,
Stript of his robe and starry crown.
XVIII.
See Jews and heathens fir'd with rage;
See, their combining powers engage,
Against th' anointed of the Lord,
The man whom angels late ador'd.
God's only fon: behold, he dyes!
Surprifing grief! the groans arise,
The lyre complains on every string,
And mourns the murder of her king.
XX.
But heaven's anointed must not dwell
In death: the vanquifh'd powers of hell
Yield to the harp's diviner lay;
The grave refigns th' illuftrious prey.
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