Say not, (to make the sun shrink in his bean)
Dare not affirm they wish it all a dream;
Wish or their souls may with their limbs decay,
Or God be spoil'd of his eternal sway:
But rather, if thou know'st the means, unfold
How they with transport might the scene behold.
Ah how! but by repentance, by a mind
Quick, and severe, its own offence to find?
By tears, and groans, and never-ceasing care,
And all the pious violence of pray'r?
Thus then, with fervency, till now unknown,
I cast my heart before th' eternal throne,
In this great temple, which the skies surround
For homage to its Lord, a narrow bound.
"O Thou! whose balance doth the mountains weigh,
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey,
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on the boundless of thy goodness calls.
Oh! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep:
Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee:
Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise:
My love be warm to succour the distress'd,
And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd.
'O may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made!
Who decks the maiden Spring with flowery pride?
Who calls forth Summer, like a sparkling bride?
Who joys the mother Autumn's bed to crown?
And bids old Winter lay her honours down?
Not the great Ottoman, or greater Czar,
Not Europe's arbitress of peace and war.
May sea, and land, and earth, and heav'n, be join'd,
To bring th' eternal Author to my mind!
When oceans roar, and awful thunders roll,
May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul;
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine,
Adore, my heart! the majesty Divine.
'Through every scene of life, or peace, or war, Plenty, or want, thy glory be my care!
Shine we in arms? or sing beneath our vine?
Thine is the vintage, and the conquest thine;
Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow,
The cluster blasts, or bids it brightly glow:
"Tis thou that lead'st our powerful armies forth,
And giv'st great Anne thy sceptre o'er the north.
'Grant I may ever, at the morning ray,
Open with pray'r the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies:
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.
And, oh! permit the gloom of solemn Night
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light;
How every boistrous thought in calms subsides!
How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides!
O how divine! to tread the milky way,
To the bright palace of the Lord of day;
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew;
Pleas'd to look down, and see the world asleep,
While I long vigils to its founder keep!
'Canst thou not shake the centre? Oh, control, Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul.
Thou who canst still the raging of the flood,
Restrain the various tumults of my blood:
Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain
Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain.
O may I pant for thee in each desire!
And with strong faith foment the holy fire!
Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize
Which in Eternity's deep bosom lies!
At the great day of recompense behold,
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold!
Then wafted upward to the blissful seat,
From age to age my grateful song repeat;
My light, my life, my God, my Saviour, see,
And rival angels in the praise of thee!"
THE book unfolding, the resplendent seat
Of saints and angels, the tremendous fate Of guilty souls, the gloomy realms of woe, And all the horrors of the world below, I next presume to sing. What yet remains. Demands my last, but most exalted strains; And let the muse or now affect the sky, Or in inglorious shades for ever lie. She kindles; she's inflam'd, so near the goal; She mounts; she gains upon the starry pole; The world grows less as she pursues her flight, And the sun darkens to her distant sight. Heav'n opening, all its sacred pomp displays, And overwhelms her with a rushing blaze! The triumph rings! archangels shout around! And echoing Nature lengthens out the sound! Ten thousand trumpets now at once advance; Now deepest silence lulls the vast expanse: So deep the silence, and so strong the blast, As Nature died, when she had groan'd her last. Nor man nor angel moves; the Judge on high Looks round, and with his glory fills the sky; Then on the fatal book his hand he lays, Which high to view supporting seraphs raise; In solemn form the rituals are prepar'd, The seal is broken, and a groan is heard. And thou, my soul! (oh, fall to sudden pray'r, And let the thought sink deep!) shalt thou be there? See on the left (for by the great command The throng divided falls on either hand) How weak, how pale, how haggard, how obscene, What more than death in every face and mien;
With what distress, and glarings of affright,
They shock the heart, and turn away the sight?
In gloomy orbs their trembling eyeballs roll,
And tell the horrid secrets of the soul:
Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care.
And every groan is loaden with despair.
Reader! if guilty, spare the muse, and find
A truer image pictur'd in the mind.
Shouldst thou behold thy brother, father, wife,
And all the soft companions of thy life,
Whose blended interests levell'd at one aim,
Whose mix'd desires sent up one common flame,
Divided far, thy wretched self alone
Cast on the left of all whom thou hast known,
How would it wound? what millions wouldst thou give
For one more trial, one day more to live?
Flung back in time an hour, a moment's space,
To grasp with eagerness the means of grace,
Contend for mercy with a pious rage,
And in that moment to redeem an age?
Drive back the tide, suspend a storm in air,
Arrest the sun, but still of this despair.
Mark, on the right, how amiable a grace!
Their Maker's image fresh in every face!
What purple bloom my ravish'd soul admires,
And their eyes sparkling with immortal fires!
Triumphant Beauty! charms that rise above
This world, and in bless'd angels kindle love!
To the great Judge with holy pride they turn,
And dare behold th' Almighty's anger burn,
Its flash sustain, against its terror rise,
And on the dread tribunal fix their eyes.
Are these the forms that moulder'd in the dust?
Oh the transcendent glory of the just!
Yet still some thin remains of fear and doubt
Th' infected brightness of their joy pollute.
Thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws
Beholds his blessing with a trembling eye, [nigh,
Feels doubtful passions throb in every vein,
And in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain,
|