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Open with pray'r the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies;
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glory with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.

And oh! permit the gloom of solemn night,
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light;

How every boist'rous thought in calm subsides!
How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides!
Oh how divine! to tread the milky way,
To the bright palace of the Lord of Day;
His court admire, of for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew:
Pleas'd to look down, and see the world asleep;
While I long vigils to its Founder keep!

Can'st thou not shake the centre? Oh control,
Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul.
Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood,
Restrain the various tumults of my blood;
Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain
Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain.
O may I pant for thee in each desire!
And with strong faith foment the holy fire!
Streach out my soul in hope, and grasp
the prize,
Which in eternity's deep bosom liesd
At the great day of recompense behold,
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold!
Then wafted upward to the blissful seat,
From age to age my grateful song repeat;
My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see,
And rival angels in the praise of thee!

YOUNG.

SECTION VII.

The pursuit of happines often ill-directed.
THE midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose;

No low'ring cloud obscures the sky,
Nor ruffling tempest blows.
Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more
Distract the lab'ring will.

In silence hush'd to reason's voice,
Attends each mental pow'r :
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy
Reflection's fav'rite hour.

Come, while the peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round:
Where shall the lovely fleeting form
Of happiness be found?

Does it amidst the frolic mirth
Of gay assemblies dwell;
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom,
That shades the hermit's cell?

How oft the laughing brow of joy
A sickning heart conceals!
And, through the cloister's deep recess,
Invading sorrow steals.

In vain through beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace ;

It dwells not in the faithless smile
That brightens Clodia's face.

Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,
The heart in friendship finds
Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit
Of visionary minds!

Howe'er our varying motions rove,
Yet all agree in one,

To place its being in some state,
At distance from our own.
O blind to each indulgent aim,
Of power supremely wise,
Who fancy happiness in aught
The hand of Heav'n denies !
Vain is alike the joy we seek,

And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious reason tunes
The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, just desires,
Is happiness confiu'd ;
And, deaf to folly's call, attends
The music of the mind.

SECTION VII.

The fire-side.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Tho' singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs :
No noisy neighbour enters, here,
No intermedling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

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And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When, with impatient wing, she left

That safe retreat, the ark;

Giving her vain excursion o'er,

The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the sacred bark.

Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly undersood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:

We'll form their minds, with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we eavy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!
For nature's calls are few:

In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r :

For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd, when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,
And pleas'd with favours giv'n :
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part:
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heav'p.
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go ;
Its chequer'd paths of joy and wo,
With cautious paths we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

SECTION IX.

COTTON.

Providence vindicated in the present state of man.
HEAV'N from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know;
Or who could suffer being here below?

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

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