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To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'ft,
Moon, that now meet’st the orient sun, now fly’st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call’d up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change.
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye mifts and exhalations that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.
Join voices all ye living fouls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,
„Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh fhade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail univerfal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceald,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

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I. ABSENCE. Ye Shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to mufe and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;

----I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each ev’ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:

----I have bade my dear Phyllis farewet.

Since Phyllis vouchlaf'd me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I figh;

And I grieve that I prizid them no more.

But why do I languilh in vain ?

Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is Aown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure alone.

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When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt at my heart !
Yet I thought----but it might not be fo---

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart : She gaz'd, as I'flowly withdrew;

My path I could harilly discerni
So fweetly the bade me adieu,
I thought that the bade me return,


The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit fome far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair,

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft, hope is the relic I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

My banks they are furnith’d with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss,

Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beach's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold! Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

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