One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.

SECTION VIII.

A morning hymn.

THOMSON.

1. THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav'ns
To us, invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lower works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
2. Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye, in heav'n,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
3. 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, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
4. 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.
5. Ye mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,

In honour of the world's great AUTHOR rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising or failing still advance his praise.

6. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With ev'ry 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 souls; ye birds
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
7. 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 bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

CHAPTER VI.

Promiscuous Pieces.,

SECTION 1.

Ode to content.

1. O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
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.
3. No more by varying 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 modest virtues dwell.

MILTON

4. Simplicity in attic vest,

And innocence, with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;

And flope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.

5. 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.

6. 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 his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
7. But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

8. O say what soft propitious hour
1 best may choose to hail thy pow'r,
And court thy gentle sway?
When autumn, friendly to the muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day?
9. When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And ev'ry storm is laid?

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice,

Low whisp'ring through the shade. BARDAULD.
SECTION H.

The shepherd and the philosopher.
1. REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,

Nor envy nor ambition knew:

His wisdem and his honest fame

Through all the country rais'd his name.' 2. A deep philosopher (whose rules

Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.

"Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,

And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown,
By various fates, on realins unknown,
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd ?"
3. The shepherd modestly replied,

"I ne'er the paths of learning tried ;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes.
Who by that search shall wiser grow?
By that ourselves we never know.
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate of vice.
4. The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.

Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind:
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray,
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing, protects her care,
And ev'ry fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge."
5. "From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule.

1

I never, with important air,
In conversation overbear.

Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise ?
My tongue within my lips I reín;
For who talks much must talk in vain.
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chatt'ring pye?
Nor would I, with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right;

6. Rapacious animals we hate;

Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find

Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny, and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus ev'ry object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean."
7. "Thy fame is just," the sage replies;
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books as affected are as men :
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;
And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise."

66

SECTION 11.

The road to happiness open to all men.

1. On happiness! our being's end and aim !

་

GAY.

Good, pleasure, ease, content! Whate'er thy name;
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die :
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise;
Plant of celestial seed, if dropt below,

Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow?

2. Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or réap'd in iron harvests of the field?

Where grows? where grows it not? if vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.