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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 hush'd 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,
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 bass;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.
Or if you rather chuse 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, 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 full!
And where he vital breathes there must be joy.
When ev'n 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.
Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain.
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it. It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.-- Shakespear's Twelfth Night.
FAR in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.
The softest blush that Nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek:
Such orient colour smiles through heaven,
When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:
That sun, who bids their diamond blazę,
To paint our lily deigns.
Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair,
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill
Each darker art employ'd.
The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling as the clod
From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their secret flame,
And saw it long unmov'd;
Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove:
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste, Beneath the moonlight shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.