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How from his mortal mother can he come
Unstain'd from sin, untinctur'd from the womb?
The Lord, from his sublime empyreal throne,
As a dark globe regards the silver moon.
Those stars, that grace the wide celestial plain,
Are but the humblest sweepings of his train,
Dim are the brightest splendours of the sky;
And the sun darkens in Jehovah's eye;
But does not sin diffuse a fouler stain,
And thicker darkness cloud the soul of man?
Shall he the depths of endless wisdom know?
This short-liv'd sovereign of the world below?
His frail original confounds his boast,

[dust. Sprung from the ground, and quicken'd from the


Praise to God in prosperity and adversity.

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,

For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the gen'rous olive's use.

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews,
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse.

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;


All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:

These to thee, my God, we owe;
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear,
From its stem the rip'ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more.
Nor the olive yield her store,

Though the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall:

Should thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each op'ning bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love thee-for thyself alone.



The first six verses of the nineteenth Psalm.

O THOU! the first, the greatest, friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,
Before this pond'rous globe itself
Arose at thy command;

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless unbeginning time
Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years,

Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st thy word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
Again thou say'st, Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought.'

Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood, thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;

But, long ere night, cut down it lies,
All wither'd and decay'd.


THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow;

There's nothing true but heaven!


And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even ;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb;
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wand'rers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way;
There's nothing calm but heaven!


TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,


Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undelug'd earth
Heaven's cov'nant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smil'd
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,

The first made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptur'd greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome siugs,
When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious in thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathom's down.

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

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