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Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,

It gently cleard my way ;
And through the pleasing snares of vice,

More to be fear'& than they.
When worn with sickness, oft hast thou,

With health renew'd my face ;
And, vvhen in sin and sorrow sunk,

Reviv'd my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous band, with worldly bliss

Has made my cup run o'er ;
And, in a kind and faithful friend,

Has doubled all ny store.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,

That tastes those gifts with joy.
Througl. ev'ry period of my life,

Thy goodness I'll pursue :
And, after death, in distant worlds,

The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night

Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful leart, O Lord,

Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity, to thee

A joyful song I'll raise,
For 0! eternity's too short
To utter all thy praise.

ADDISOX.

SECTION VII.

A man perishing in the snow; from rohence reflections

are raised on the miseries of life.
As thus the snows arise; and foul and fierce,
All winter drives along the darkeo'd air;
In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain
Disaster'd stands, sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain;
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on,
From bill to dale, still more and more astray,
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with thoughts of hone, the thoughts of home
Rush on his aerves, and call their vigour forth

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul !
What black despair, what horror fills his heart !
When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the tract, and blest abode of man ;
While round him night resistless closes fast,
And ev'ry tempest howling o'er bis head,
Readers the savage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost !
of faithless bogs, of precipices huge,
Smooth'd ap with snow, and what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still up frozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountaic from the bottom boils.
These check bis fearful steps ; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender aoguish nature shoots
Through the wrong bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen
In vain for him th' officious wile prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ;
lo vain his little childrea, peeping out
Into the mingled storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold ;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On ev'ry nerve
The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sease ;
And, o'er bis inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast.

Ah, little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow's, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy wirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste ;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of paine !

www many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame! How many bleed,
By shameful varience betwixt man and man!
Ilow many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut frou the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sure pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shriok into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many stake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around che death.hed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Though fond man
Of these, and all the thousand Oameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, ot suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appalled;
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish beaevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sighs
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refiniog still, the social passions work. THOMSON,

SECTION VIII.

A morning hymn.
These are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Alaighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then !
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above the beavens,
To us, invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divide,
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behoid him, and with songs
And choral sympbodies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye, io heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without eada

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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 moro
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 bim thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal coorse, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
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’riog 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 quaterpion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; apd mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great MAKER still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From bill 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 the uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
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 ev'ry plant, in sigo of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that werble as ye flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven's 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 silent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise,
Hail, UNIVERSAL LORD! be boonteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Dispise it, as now light dispels the dark.

MILTON

CHAPTER VI.

PROMISCUOUS PIECES.

SECTION I.

Ode to content.

0

THOU, the nymph with placid ere !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh !

Receive my temp'rate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole.
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth, unalter'd brow.
O come in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdu'd delight.
No more by varyiing passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where, in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The niodest virtues dwell.
Şimplicity in attic vest,
And Innocence, with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears,

A vista to the sky.
There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide
The temp'rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow ;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek,

To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage,
A tyrant master's wanton rage,

With settled smiles to meet :
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd bis meek, submitted head,

And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

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