Monsters of earth and of the main,

Remote from nature as from truth, Their learned pens the sky had figured o'er : No star with such kind aspect shone before; Nor e'er did wandering planet stoop so low To guide benighted pilgrims through this vale of woe.

The heavenly impulse they obey,

The new-born light directs their way;

Through deserts never marked by human tread,

And billowy waves of loose, unfaithful sand,

O'er many an unknown hill and foreign strand

The silver clue unerring led,

And peopled towns they pass, and glittering spires ;

No cloud could veil its light, no sun could quench its fires.

Thus passed the venerable pilgrims on,

Till Salem's stately towers before them shone,

And soon their feet her hallowed pavements presst;

Not in her marble courts to rest,—

From pomp and royal state aloof,

Their shining guide its beams withdrew;

And points their path, and points their view, To Bethlehem's rustic cots, to Mary's lowly roof.

There the bright sentinel kept watch,

While other stars arose and set;

For there, within its humble thatch,

Weakness and power, and heaven and earth were met.

Now, sages, now your search give o'er,

Believe, fall prostrate, and adore!

Here spread your spicy gifts, your golden offerings here;

No more the fond complaint renew,

Of human guilt and mortal woe,

Of knowledge checked by doubt, and hope with fear:

What angels wished to see, ye view;

What angels wished to learn, ye know ;

Peace is proclaimed to man, and heaven begun below.

TO MR. BARBAULD,

NOVEMBER, 14, 1778.

COME, clear thy studious looks awhile,

"T is arrant treason now

To wear that moping brow,

When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

What though the fading year

One wreath will not afford

To grace the poet's hair,

Or deck the festal board;

A thousand pretty ways we 'll find
To mock old Winter's starving reign;
We'll bid the violets spring again,

Bid rich poetic roses blow,

Peeping above his heaps of snow;

We'll dress his withered cheeks in flowers,

And on his smooth bald head

Fantastic garlands bind :

Garlands, which we will get

From the gay blooms of that immortal year,

Where

Above the turning seasons set,

young ideas shoot in Fancy's sunny bowers.

A thousand pleasant arts we'll have

To add new feathers to the wings of Time,

And make him smoothly haste away:

We'll use him as our slave,

And when we please we'll bid him stay,

And clip his wings, and make him stop to view

Our studies, and our follies too;

How sweet our follies are, how high our fancies climb.

We'll little care what others do,

And where they go, and what they say;

Our bliss, all inward and our own,

Would only tarnished be, by being shown.
The talking restless world shall see,

Spite of the world we 'll happy be;
But none shall know

How much we're so,

Save only Love, and we.