So cloath'd with beauty, for rebellious man?
Yes-ye may fill your garners, ye that reap
The loaded foil, and ye may wafte much good
In fenfelefs riot; but ye will not find

In feaft, or in the chace, in fong or dance,
A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd
Of ufurpation, and to no man's wrong,
Appropriates nature as his father's work,
And has a richer ufe of yours, than you.
He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth,
Of no mean city, plann'd or ere the hills
Were built, the fountains open'd, or the fea,
With all his roaring multitude of waves.
His freedom is the fame in ev'ry state,
And no condition of this changeful life,
So manifold in cares, whofe ev'ry day
Brings its own evil with it, makes it lefs.
For he has wings that neither fickness, pain,
Nor penury, can cripple or confine.

No nook fo narrow, but he fpreads them there
With ease, and is at large. Th' oppreffor holde
His body bound, but knows not what a range
His fpirit takes, unconscious of a chain,
And that to bind him is a vain attempt,
Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

Acquaint thyfelf with God, if thou would'st tafte His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou waft blind before; Thine eye fhall be inftructed, and thine heart Made pure, fhall relish with divine delight, U

'Till

'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.
Brutes graze. the mountain-top with faces prone,
And eyes intent upon the fcanty herb

It yields them, or recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate, heedlefs of the fcene outfpread
Beneath, beyond, and ftretching far away,
From inland regions to the diftant main.
Man views it, and admires, but refts content
With what he views. The landscape has his praise,
But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd

The paradife he fees, he finds it fuch,

And fuch well-pleas'd to find it, afks no more.
Not fo the mind that has been touch'd from heav'n,
And in the school of facred wifsdom taught

To read his wonders, in whofe thought the world,
Fair as it is, exifted ere it was.

Not for its own fake merely, but for his,

Much more, who fafhion'd it, he gives it praife;
Praise, that from earth refulting, as it ought,
To earth's acknowledg'd fov'reign, finds at once
Its only juft proprietor in Him.

The foul that fees him, or receives fublim'd
New faculties, or learns at leaft t' employ
More worthily the pow'rs fhe own'd before;
Difcerns in all things, with what ftupid gaze
Of ignorance, till then, fhe overlook'd,
A ray of heav'nly light gilding all forms
Terrestrial, in the vaft, and the minute,
The unambiguous footsteps of the God
Who gives its luftre to an infect's wing,
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.

Much

Much. converfant with heav'n, fhe often holds.
With thofe fair minifters of light to man,
That fill the skies nightly, with filent pomp,
Sweet conference; enquires what ftrains were they,
With which heav'n rang, when ev'ry star, in hafte
To gratulate the new-created earth,

Sent forth a voice, and all the fons of God
Shouted for joy." Tell me, ye shining hofts
"That navigate, a fea that knows no ftorms
"Beneath a vault unfullied with a cloud,
"If from your elevation, whence ye view
"Distinctly, fcenes invifible to man,
"And fvftems, of whofe birth no tidings yet.
"Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race
"Favor'd as our's, tranfgreffors from the womb,
"And hafting to a grave, yet doom'd to rife,
"And to poffefs a brighter heav'n than yours? :
"As one who long detain❜d on foreign shores
"Pants to return, and when he fees 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 with animated hopes behold,

"And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, "That fhew like beacons in the blue abyfs, "Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home, "From toilfome life, to never-ending reft. "Love kindles as I gaze. I feel defires, "That give affurance of their own fuccefs, "And that infus'd from heav'n, must thither tend.".

So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp, myfterious word! Which, whofo fees, no longer wanders loft, With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt, But runs the road of wifdom. Thou haft built, With means that were not, till by thee employ'd, Worlds that had never been, hadft thou in ftrength Been lefs, or lefs benevolent than' ftrong. They are thy witneffes, who speak thy pow'r And goodness infinite, but fpeak in ears That hear not, or receive not their report. In vain thy creatures teftify of thee, 'Till thou proclaim thyfelf. Theirs is indeed A teaching voice; but 'tis 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. Poffefs the heart, and fables falfe as hell, Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death The uninform'd and heedlefs fouls 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 fcrutiny, and prov'd Then fkilful moft, when most severely judg'd. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'fst : Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r, (If pow'r fhe be, that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refufing, while we can, Inftruction, and inventing to ourselves

Gods,

Gods, fuch as guilt makes welcome, Gods that fleep, Or difregard our follies, or that fit

Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage.

Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, 'till pure as thou art pure,

Made fuch by thee, we love thee for that caufe
For which we fhunn'd and hated thee before.
Then we are free: then liberty, like day,
Breaks on the foul, and by a flash from heav'n,
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not
"Till thou haft touch'd them; 'tis the voice of fong,
A loud Hofanna fent from all thy works,
Which he that hears it, with a fhout repeats,
And adds his rapture to the gen❜ral praise.
In that bleft moment, nature throwing wide.
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile
The author of her beauties, who retir'd
Behind his own creation, works unfeen
By the impure, and hears his pow'r deny'd.
Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of reft, eternal word!
From thee departing, they are loft and rove
At random, without honor, hope, or peace.
From thee is all that fooths the life of man,
His high endeavour, and his glad fuccefs,
His itrength to fuffer, and his will to ferve.
But oh, thou bounteous giver of all good,
Thou art, of all thy gifts, thyfelf the crown!
Give what thou canft, without thee we are poor,
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

ARGU.