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What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!
O’er mountains yet untrod,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang, On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Be still the poet's theme.
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down. As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
That first spoke peace to man.
TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm :
Required a God to form.
From whom thy being flow'd,
On that poor worm bestow'd.
The sun, the moon, the stars he made
To all his creatures free;
For worms as well as thee.
Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive :
The life thou canst not give.
ON MARY, THE WIFE OF THE REV. W. MASON.
Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear;
Take that best gift, which Heaven so lately gave. To Bristol's fount I bore, with trembling care,
Her faded form-she bow'd to taste the wave, And died! Does youth, does beauty read the line ?
Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? Speak, dead MARIA ; breathe a strain divine
E’en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm! Did them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move, And if as fair, from vanity as free,
As firn in friendship, and as fond in love; Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die,
('T was even to thee)—yet the dread path once trod, HEAVEN lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids the pure in heart behold their God.
THE PARISH PRIEST.
A Parish Priest was of the pilgrim train,
He bore his great commission in his look,
But on elernal mercy loved to dwell.
Though he had little, he had some to spare, To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare: For mortified he was to that degree, A poorer than himself he would not see. Wide was his parish; not contracted close In streets, but here and there a straggling house : Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, to succor the distress’d, Tempting on foot, alone, without affright, The dangers of a dark tempestuous night. All this the good old man perform'd alone, Nor spared his pains, for curate he had none. The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd; Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd. His preaching much, but more his practice wrought, A living sermon of the truths he taught. For this by rules severe his life he squared, That all might see the doctrines that they heard :