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Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,

No stab the soul can kill.

MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sit'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
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 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, sound His praise
In thy eternal course, 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'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 mists and exhalations that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey,
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 souls; 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 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
Have gather'd ought of evil or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

But all our praises why should lords engross??
Rise, honest muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow!
From thy dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Nor to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate?

Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
The Man of Ross, each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med’cine takes and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attornies now an useless race.
"Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
"What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do.
"O say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?"
Of debts and taxes, wife, or children clear,

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This man possess'd-five hunred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze:

Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

"And what! No monument, inscription, stone? "His race, his form, his name almost unknown?" Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.

FROM THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE

WISDOM OF SOLOMON.

How is our reason to the future blind,
When vice enervates and enslaves the mind!
What sense suggests, how fondly we believe,
And with what subtility ourselves deceive!

Frail is our state, (th' ungodly cry) how few
The days of life, and yet how tedious too!
Death is our certain doom, in vain we strive
To stay the blow, and idly wish to live;
When once we to the grave descend, in vain
Hope ever to return, and breathe again.

Chance gave us birth, chance form'd our brittle frame,

Now know we how, or why, or whence we came :
Smoke is our breath, a spark our vital part,
That warms, and moves, and animates the heart,
Which once extinguish'd, we no more are seen;
Then shall we be, as if we ne'er had been.
Our works shall all in dark oblivion lie,
And with ourselves our very names shall die;
Silent, forgot, to nothing we repair,

To dust our bodies, and our souls to air.

We vanish like a cloud, that owes its birth To exhalations from the glowing earth,

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