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Tripping through the silken grass
O’er the path-divided dale,
With her well-poised milking pail.
Linnets with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckow bird with two,
Bid the setting sun adieu.
FROM THOMSON'S SEASONS.
These, as they change, Almighty Father! these
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
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!
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, At once the head, the heart, and 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 base; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And tind 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 tliey 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, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!
Should Fate command me to the farthest verge 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 th’ Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city fall! And where he vital breathes, there must be joy. When even 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 not smiles 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.
EDWIN AND EMMA.
BY DAVID MALLET, ESQ.
Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
A humble cottage stood.