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The Summer gives his radiant day,
The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines,
The Winter sends his drenching shower,
WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came, Her father's God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
But, present still, though now unseen!
To temper the deceitful ray.
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,
And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. But THOU hast said, "the blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, an humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice."
YE midnight shades, o'er nature spread!
On this pale ground,
Through all this deep surrounding gloom,
The tear untaught,
Those meetest mourners at a tomb.
Lo! as the surpliced train drew near
To this last mansion of mankind,
Strikes mute instruction to the heart!
Now let the sacred organ blow, With solemn pause, and sounding slow; Now let the voice due measure keep, In strains that sigh, and words that weep; Till all the vocal current blended roll, Not to depress, but lift, the soaring soul: To lift it in the Maker's praise,
Who first inform'd our frame with breath, And, after some few stormy days,
Now, gracious, gives us o'er to death.
In him appears
Who shuts the scene of human woes;
Beneath his shade
The dead alone find true repose.
Then, while we mingle dust with dust,
And man most happy when he dies!
Fair spring at last
Receives him on her flowery shore!
And sin and sorrow are no more!
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.
I AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
That sages have seen in thy face?
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone;
The beasts that roam over the plain
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again. My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
Or all that this earth can afford:
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Of a land I shall visit no more.
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight,