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By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man;
And he that shows none, being ripe in years,
And conscious of the outrage he commits,
Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn.

Distinguish'd much by reason, and ftill more-
By our capacity of grace divine,
From creatures that exist but for our fake,
Which, having serv'd us, perish, we are held
Accountable; and God, some future day,
Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse
Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust,
Superior as we are, they yet depend
No more on human help, than we on theirs.
Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were giv'n
In aid of our defects. In some are found
Such teachable and apprehensive parts,
That man's attainments in his own concerns,
Match'd with th' expertness of the brutes in theirs,
Are oft-times vanquish'd and thrown far behind.
Some show that nice fagacity of smell,
And read with such discernment, in the port
And figure of the man, his secret aim,
That oft we owe our safety to a skill
We could not teach, and must despair to learn.
But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop
To quadrupede instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too


Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Attachment never to be wean’d or changed
By any change of fortune, proof alike
Against unkindness, abfence, and neglect;
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move or warp, aud gratitude for small
And trivial favors, latting as the life,
And glistening even in the dying eye.



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"HE groans of nature in this nether world,

Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promised fabbath comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world. And wbat remains Of this tempestuous state of human things, Is merely as the working a sea Before a calm, that rocks itself to reft. For he whose car the winds are, and the clouds

The dust that waits upon this sultry march
When fin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot,
Shall visit earth in mercy; fhall descend
Propitious, in his chariot paved with love,
And what his forms have blafted and defaced
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy. Too sweet
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch.
Nor can the wonders it records, be sung
To meaner music, and not fuffer lofs.
But when a poet, or when one like me,
Happy to rove among poctic flow'rs
Though poor in kill to rear them, lights at laft
On some fair theme, fome theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the fpur he feels
To give it praise proportioned to its worth,
That not tattempt it, arduous as he deems
The labor, were à talk more arduous ftill.

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Oh scenes furpafling fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ! which who can fee
Though but in diftant profpect, and not feel
His soul refresh'd with fortaste of the joy?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,
And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach
Of bàrreness is past. The fruitful field

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Tk svout to each other, and the mountain tops Testom diftant mountains catch the flying joy,

ll nation after nation taught the strain, flach rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.

Esehold the treasure of the promise filled, kinee Salem built, the labour of a Goj!

Bright as a fun the sacred city shines ;

All kingdoms and all princes of the earth
Stadlock to that light'; the glory of all lands

Flows into her, unbounded is her joy
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there
Nabaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;
The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind.
And Saba's fpicy groves pay tribute there.
Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls,
And in her streets, and in her fpacious courts
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there.
Kneels with the native of the farthest West,
And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand
And worships. Her repore has travelld forth
Into all lands. From every clime they come
To see thy beauty and to share thy joy,
O Sion ! an assembly such as earth
Saw never, such as Heav'n stoops down to see.

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Thus heav'n-ward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length reftord.

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