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HYMN OF THE SEASONS.

BY THOMPSON. THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm, Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles ; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer-months, With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering galeg. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast.

Mysterious round. what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined,

Shade unperceived so softening into shade,
And all so forming an harmonious whole,
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres,
Works in the secret deep,shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring;
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day,
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth,
And, as on earth this greatful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend ! join every living soul
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and, ardent, raise
One general song! To him, ye vocal gales
Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness

breathes, Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms, Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe! And ye whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to

heaven The impetuous song,and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound, Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale,--and thou, majestic main,

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A secret world of wonders in thyself,
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice
Bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers
In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil

paints.
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to him:
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies ; effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, .
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On Nature write with every beam his praise.
The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound : the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise : for the Great Shepherd reigns,
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all awake: a boundless song
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm
The listening shades,and teach the night his praise.
Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,

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At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! In swarming cities vast,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass,
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour reach to heaven.
Or, if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of seasons as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,
Or winter rises in the blackening east,
Be my tongue mute, may Fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !

Should fate command me to the farthest vergo
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis naught to me,
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full,

And where he vital breathes there must be joy.
When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing ; I cannot go

Where Universal Love smiles not around,
Sustaining all yon orbs and all their suns :
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in him, in Light Ineffable!
Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise.

ON SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.

BY T. WARTON. From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing

walls, To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens, Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells, Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells ; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers ; At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

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