He daily sunlike on thee shine,
Dispel all clouds and cheer within
The happy child of grace:
Give thee with tenderness to feel,
With zeal to love, and so fulfil
The orbit of thy race!
ON LISTENING TO THE VIBRATIONS OF A CLOCK.
INSTRUCTIVE Sound! I'm now convinced by thee,
Time in its womb may bear infinity,
How the past moment dies, and throbs no more!
What worlds of parts compose the rolling hour!
The least of these a serious care demands;
For though they're little, yet they're golden sands:
By some great deeds distinguished all in heaven,
For the same end to me by number given!
Cease, man, to lavish sums thou ne'er hast told!
Angels though deathless, dare not be so bold!
A PIECE WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN UNDER THE APPREHENSION OF LOSING HIS SENSES.
A FOOL, bereft of common wit,
If God will make me, I submit,
The jests and laughter I can brook,
Raised by my odd, dejected look;
To any, cheaply sly, or brave,
I'll be a property and slave;
A ground in empty fops to cause
A tickling, secret self-applause;
But to more sober minds a call,
To think what ills may man befall,
No science more, no learned design,
No favourite system now is mine;
Each keen pretension I disclaim,
Nor hear the sprightly trump of fame :
Quiet the world flows on for me,
Under its chiefs, whoe'er they be:
I'll die so from endearments clear,
So useless, none will drop a tear.
Remembrance, Lord! with thee alone
Will be of lately such a one:
And well I know this lamp of mine,
Now interrupted in its shine,
The good resolves-so soon defaced,
The loves which dark disquiet blast,
Shall be revived another day,
When nothing shall their force betray.
Thy healing light, if I partake,
The fool shall in full wisdom wake:
Is ignorance more, than learning, blind
To truths which blissful love must find:
Love grant me now-howe'er obscure-
To fix the heart I can't secure;
To guard the steps, if anguish drive,
If thought becalmed-no more survive,
Or blazing thick the eye deceive.
Under this shield I'll view serene
Whate'er mischance may supervene;
Attentive, how the stingless ill
His friendly message doth fulfil ;-
Which can't my future glory spoil,
And will conclude my present toil.
One of your kind, my human friends,
But for one boon the kind pretends:
Beneath your notice thus deprest,
Let him lie down, and be at rest:
Sage thoughts, like thunder-stricken oak,
In each spectator he'll provoke.
May some one guard, when
your are dead From all licentious wrongs your head; As with decent heed revere you Your poor unliving brother here: For why is censure spent in vain On deeds of incoherent brain? Those under no account can fall,
Or if they can, are sealed
For, though on earth this spectre roam, He's of no world, but that to come.
UNSKILFUL while my eye explores
The sage Apothecary's stores
With baneful names inscribed,
Of venom from each mineral mould,
Of plants, which breathe delirious cold,
Or hotter suns imbibed:
Such drugs, quoth I, whose ice or fire
Against the vital mean conspire,
Remove such drugs as these:
This to a furnace frets the blood,
Narcotic that arrests the flood,
Softly! said he each fiercer juice,
To charm and bend it to our use,
Has some corrective nigh;
Thus harmless through the veins 'twill shoot,
And-native poison at the root,
Will raise the cordial high.
This secret now to man apply:
Do not our peccant humours die
Beneath a friend's control?
This can retrench our rage to worth,
And call the first idea forth,
And balance all the soul.
Our genius erst pursued its course,
Like spirits of too sublimate force.
And worked itself to wind;
But now it moves a measured length
With temper now, and ancient strength,
In vehicles enshrined.
Go then-your own corrective seek,
That to your fire shall add the meek,
And to your phlegm the gay;
Without his will-taste not your own,
The potion's poison, when alone,
And you are born to stray.
With this refiner of your heart,
You'll feel the image of your art,
A gentle mixture made;
You of his joy serene possessed,
And your chagrin within his breast
Acknowledged, spent and laid.
Nor will he give th' ingredients crude,
His ways in gross on you obtrude,
Which should your genius spoil;
With nicer hand he'll but instil
What best incorporates with your will,
The tincture-or the oil.
SHE THAT LIVETH IN PLEASURE, IS DEAD
How hapless is th' applauded virgin's lot,
Her God forgetting, by her God forgot!
Stranger to truth, unknowing to obey,
In error nursed, and disciplined to stray;
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