How quickly 'mongst the dying embers,
When each soft concussion comes,
The sudden change at once dismembers,
Tow'rs and temples, groves and domes!
And on the dim and dusky wall,
Swift flick'ring shapes the muser sees,
And hears wild voices rise and fall,
Amid the moanings of the breeze!
So life is fated. Youth increases
Tow'rs of Hope 'gainst truths of woe,
Until his early spring-time ceases,
And like frost-work down they go!
Then fearful shapes around him stray,
Which chance no dawn can e'er dispell,
And fears oppose his future way,
Which heav'nly grace alone can quell.
O THE Wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing! Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of spring,
Like the thunder that bursts on the summer's do-
It fell on the head of the homicide Cain. [main,
And lo! like a deer in the fright of the chase,
With a fire in his heart, and a brand on his face,
He speeds him afar to the desert of Nod-
A vagabond smote by the vengeance of God.
All nature to him has been blasted and bann'd,
For the blood of a brother yet reeks on his hand;
And no vintage has grown, and no fountain has
sprung
For cheering his heart, or for cooling his tongue.
The groans of a father his slumber shall start,
And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the kiss of his children shall scorch him like
When he thinks of the curse that hangs over his
And the wife of his bosom-the faithful and fair-
Can mix no sweet drop in his cup of despair;
For her tender caress, and her innocent breath,
But stir in his soul the hot embers of wrath.
And his off'ring may blaze-unregarded by Hea
And his spirit may pray-yet remain unforgiven; And his grave may be closed-but no rest to him O the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing ![bring :
BEGIN, my soul, th' exalted lay!
Let each enraptur'd thought obey,
And praise th' Almighty's name :
Lo! heaven and earth, and seas and skies,
In one melodious concert rise,
To swell th' inspiring theme.
Ye fields of light, celestial plains,
Where gay transporting beauty reigns,
Ye scenes divinely fair!
Your Maker's wond'rous power proclaim :
Tell how he form'd your shining frame,
And breath'd the fluid air.
Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound!
While all th' adoring thrones around
His boundless mercy sing:
Let ev'ry listening saint above,
Wake all the tuneful soul of love,
And touch the sweetest string.
Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir;
Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire,
The mighty chorus aid;
Soon as grey ev'ning gilds the plain,
Thou, moon, protract the melting strain,
And praise him in the shade.
Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode,
Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God,
Who call'd yon worlds from night:
"Ye shades, dispell!"-th' Eternal said:
At once th' involving darkness fled,
And nature sprung to light.
Whate'er a blooming world contains,
That wings the air, that skims the plains,
United praise bestow :
Ye dragons, sound his awful name
To heav'n aloud; and roar acclaim,
Ye swelling deeps below.
Let every element rejoice;
Ye thunders, burst with awful voice
To him who bids you roll;
His praise in softer notes declare,
Each whisp'ring breeze of yielding air,
And breathe it to the soul.
To him, ye graceful cedars, bow;
Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low,
Your great Creator own;
Tell, when affrighted nature shook,
How Sinai kindled at his look,
And trembled at his frown.
Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale,
Ye insects flutt'ring on the gale,
In mutual concourse rise;
Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom,
And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume,
In incense to the skies.
Wake all ye mountain tribes, and sing;
Ye plumy warblers of the spring,
Harmonious anthems raise
To him who shap'd your finer mould,
Who tipp'd your glitt'ring wings with gold,
And tun'd your voice to praise.
Let man by nobler passions sway'd,
The feeling heart, the judging head,
In heavenly praise employ;
Spread his tremendous name around,
Till heav'n's broad arch rings back the sound,
The gen'ral burst of joy.
Ye whom the charms of grandeur please,
Nurs'd in the downy lap of ease,
Fall prostrate at his throne.
Ye princes, rulers, all adore;
Praise him, ye kings, who makes your pow'r An image of his own.
Ye fair, by nature form'd to move,
O praise th' eternal Source of love,
With youth's enliv'ning fire:
Let age take up the tuueful lay,
Sigh his bless'd name-then soar away,
And ask an angel's lyre.
THE XXV. CHAPTER OF JOB PARAPHRASED.
THEN will vain man complain and murmur still,
And stand on terms with his Creator's will!
Shall this high privilege to clay be given?
Shall dust arraign the providence of Heaven?
With reason's line the boundless distance scan?
Oppose Heaven's awful majesty to man?
To what a length his vast dimensions run!
How far beyond the journey's of the sun!
He hung yon golden balls of light on high,
And launch'd the planets through the liquid sky:
To rolling worlds he mark'd the certain space,
Fix'd and sustain'd the elemental peace.
Unnumber'd as those worlds his armies move,
And the gay legions guard his realms above;
High o'er th' ethereal plains the myriads rise,
And pour their flaming ranks along the skies:
From their bright arms incessant splendors stream,
And the wide azure kindles with the gleam.
To this low world he bids the light repair, Down through the gulfs of undulating air; For man he taught the glorious sun to roll From his bright barrier to his western goal.
How then shall man, thus insolently proud. Plead with his judge, and combat with his G
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