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A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms
Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute,
The unambiguous footsteps of the God
Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.
Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds
With those fair ministers of light to man,

That nightly fill the skies with silent

pomp,
Sweet conference! inquires what strains were they
With which Heaven rang, when every star, in haste
To gratulate the new-created earth,

Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God
Shouted for joy.-"Tell me, ye shining hosts,
That navigate a sea that knows no storms,
Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,
If from your elevation, whence ye view
Distinctly scenes invisible to man,

And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet
Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race
Favour'd as ours, transgressors from the womb,
And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,
And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?
As one who, long detain'd on foreign shores,
Pants to return, and when he sees afar

His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks
From the green wave emerging, darts an eye
Radiant with joy towards the happy land;
So I with animated hopes behold,

And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,
That show like beacons in the blue abyss,
Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home,
From toilsome life to never-ending rest.
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires
That give assurance of their own success,
And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend."

So reads he Nature, whom the lamp of truth
Illuminates: thy lamp, mysterious Word!
Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,
With intellect bemazed, in endless doubt,

But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built
With means that were not, till by thee employ'd,
Worlds that had never been, hadst thou in strength
Been less, or less benevolent than strong.

They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears
That hear not, or receive not, their report.
In vain thy creatures testify to thee,

Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed
A teaching voice; but 't is the praise of thine,
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,
And with the boon gives talents for its use.
Till thou art heard, imaginations vain
Possess the heart, and fables false as hell,
Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death
The uninform'd and heedless souls of men.

We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,
The glory of thy work, which yet appears
Perfect and unimpeachable of blame,
Challenging human scrutiny, and proved
Then skilful most when most severely judged
But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st:
Thy providence forbids that fickle power
(If power she be, that works but to confound)
To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws.
Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can
Instruction, and inventing to ourselves

Gods such as guilt makes welcome, gods that sleep,
Or disregard our follies, or that sit

Amused spectators of this bustling stage.

Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure,

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause,

For which we shunn'd and hated thee before.
Then we are free: then liberty, like day,
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not
Till thou hast touch'd them; 't is the voice of song-
A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works,

Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the general praise. In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retired Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his power denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From thee departing they are lost, and rove At random, without honour, hope, or peace. From thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But O, thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

COWPER.

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

As by some tyrant's stern command
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the distant way,
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
Then, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu;
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop and often look behind.

Companion of

my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,

How blithesome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill or shady grove,

Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along;

But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

Those scenes must charm me now no more;
Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-
Farewell!-a long, a last adieu.

Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities, draw:
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose revelry and riot bold,

In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you,
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self, must please;

Instead of thee, a formal band

In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony:
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;

And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queens, is more admired.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverend awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
Th' united boast of many an age;
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.

In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe,
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend,
By various laws, to one great end:
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns, of life,
The visage wan, the purblind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus, though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,

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