Whate'er a blooming world contains,

That wings the air, that fkims the plains,

His praise in fofter notes declare,
Each whifp'ring breeze of yielding air,
And breathe it to the foul.

To him, ye graceful cedars, bow;
Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low,
Your great Creator own;

Tell, when affrighted Nature fhook,
How Sinai kindled at his look,

And trembled at his frown.

Ye flocks, that haunt the humble vale,
Ye infects flutt'ring on the gale,

In mutual concourse rise;

Crop the gay rofe's vermeil bloom,
And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume,
In incenfe to the skies.

Wake all ye mounting tribes, and fing;
Ye plumy warblers of the spring,
Harmonious anthems raife

TO HIM who fhap'd your finer mould,
Who tipp'd your glitt'ring wings with gold,
And tun'd your voice to praise.

Let man, by nobler passions sway'd,
The feeling heart, the judging head,
In heav'nly praise employ ;
Spread his tremendous name around,

Till heav'n's broad arch rings back the found,
The gen❜ral burft of joy.

Ye whom the charms of grandeur please,
Nurs'd on the downy lap of Ease,

Fall proftrate at his throne:

Ye princes, rulers, all adore;

Praise him, ye kings, who makes your pow'r
An image of his own.

Ye fair, by nature form'd to move,
O praise th' eternal SOURCE OF LOVE,
With youth's enlivening fire:

Let age take up the tuneful lay,

Sigh his bless'd name-then foar away,
And ask an angel's lyre.

SECTION XV.

The Univerfal Prayer.

FATHER OF ALL! in ev'ry age,

In ev'ry clime, ador'd,

By faint, by favage, and by fage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

OGILVIE.

Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least understood,

Who all my fense confin'd

To know but this, that Thou art good,

And that myself am blind;

What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do,

This teach me more than hell to fhun, That more than heav'n pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives Let me not caft away;

For God is paid, when man receives;
T' enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think the Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Prefume thy bolts to throw;
And deal damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;

If I am wrong, Oh teach my

To find that better way!

heart

This day, be bread and

peace my lot:

All elfe beneath the fun

Thou know'ft if beft beftow'd or not,

And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space,

Whofe altar, earth, fea, fkies!
One chorus let all being raife!

All Nature's incenfe rife.

SECTION XVI.

Confcience

treach'rous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep
On rofe and myrtle, lull'd with fyren fong;
While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,
And give us up to licence, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd;-fee, from behind her fecret ftand,
The fly informer minutes ev'ry fault,

And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the grofs act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,

A watchful foe! the formidable spy,
Lift'ning, o'erhears the whifpers of our camp;
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And fteals our embryos of iniquity..

As all-rapacious ufurers conceal

Their doomsday-book from all-confuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats
Us fpendthrifts of ineftimable time;
Unnoted, notes each moment mifapply'd;

In leaves more durable than leaves of brafs,

Writes our whole hiftory; which Death shall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear;

POPE.

And judgment publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endless age in groans refound.

SECTION XVII.

On an Infant.

TO THE dark and filent tomb,
Soon I hafted from the womb:
Scarce the dawn of life began,
Ere I meafur'd out my span.
I no fmiling pleasures knew ;
I no gay delights could view :
Joylefs fojourner was I,
Only born to weep and die.--
Happy infant, early blefs'd!
Reft, in peaceful flumber, reft;
Early refcu'd from the cares,
Which increase with growing years.
No delights are worth thy ftay,
Smiling as they seem, and gay;
Short and fickly are they all,

Hardly tafted ere they pall.

All our gaiety is vain,

All our laughter is but pain:
Lafting only, and divine,

Is an innocence like thine.

SECTION XVIII.

The Cuckoo.

HAIL, beauteous ftranger of the wood,

Attendant on the Spring!

Now heav'n repairs thy rural feat,

And woods thy welcome fing.

YOUNG.