But the found of the church going bell
Thefe vallies and rocks never heard ;
Ne'er figh'd at the found of a knell,
Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear❜d.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this defolate shore,
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I fhall vifit no more.
My friends, do they now and then fend
A with or a thought after me?
O tell me. I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to fee.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compar'd with the fpeed of its flight,
The tempeft itself lags behind,
And the fwift wing'd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there ;
But, alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the fea fowl is gone to her nest,
The beaft is laid down in his lair;
E'en here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in ev'ry place;
And mercy; encouraging thought!
Gives even affection a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
WHEN all thy mercies, O my God!
My rifing foul furveys,
Transported with the view, I'm loft
In wonder, love, and praise.
O how fhall words, with equal warmth,
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravifh'd heart?
But thou canft read it there.
Thy Providence my life fuftain'd,
And all my wants redrest,
When in the filent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breaft.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in pray'r.
Unnumber'd comforts to my foul
Thy tender care bestow'd,
Before my infant heart conceiv'd
From whom thofe comforts flow'd.
When, in the flipp'ry paths of youth,
With heedless steps, I ran,
Thine arm, unfeen, convey'd me fafe,
And led me up to man.
Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way;
And through the pleafing fnares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they.
When worn with sickness, oft haft thou,
With health renew'd my face,
And, when in fins and forrows funk,
Reviv'd my foul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand, with wordly blifs,
Has made my cup rùn o'er ;
And, in a kind and faithful friend,
Has doubled all my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ ;
Nor is the leaft, a cheerful heart,
That tastes thofe gifts with joy.
Through ev'ry period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll purfue;
And, after death, in diftant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful heart, O Lord!
Thy mercy fhall adore.
Through all eternity, to thee.
A joyful fong I'll raife,
For O! eternity's too fhort
To utter all thy praise.
SECTION VII.
AMAN PERISHING IN THE SNOW; EROM WHENCE REFLECTIONS ARE RAIDER,
AS THUS the fnows arife; and foul and fierce,
All winter drives along the darken'd air;
In his own loofe revolving field, the fwain
Difafter'd ftands; fees other hills afcend,
Of unknown joylefs brow; and other fcenes,
Of horrid profpect, fhag the tracklefs plain :
Nor finds the river, nor the foreft, hid
Beneath the formlefs wild; but wanders on
From hill to dale, ftill more and more astray;
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rufh on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How finks his foul !
What black defpair, what horror fills his heart!
When, for the dusky fpot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rifing through the fnow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track and bleft abode of man;
While round him night resistless clofes fast,
And ev'ry tempeft howling o'er his head,
Renders the favage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the bufy fhapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire defcent, beyond the pow'r of froft!
Of faithlefs bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with fnow; and what is land, unknown.
What water, of the ftill unfrozen fpring,
In the loose marsh or folitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils,
These check his fearful steps; and down he finks
Beneath the shelter of the fhapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bofom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unfeen.
In vain for him th' officious wife
prepares
The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingled ftorm, demand their fire,
With tears of artlefs innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor facred home. On ev'ry nerve
The deadly winter feizes; fhuts up sense;
And o'er his inmoft vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the fnow a ftiffen'd corfe,
Stretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast.
Ah, little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the fad variety of pain.
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flames. How many bleed,
By fhameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common ufe
Of their own limbs! How many drink the
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds
How many fhrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerlefs poverty ! How many fhake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madness, guilt, remorfe!
How many, rack'd with honeft paffions, droop
In deep retir'd diftrefs! How many stand
Around the death bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguifh! Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant ftruggle render life
One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand apall'd
And heedlefs rambling impulse learn to think;
The confcious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide with benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rife, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work.
THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this univerfal frame,
Thus wond'rous fair; thyfelf how wond'rous then!
Unfpeakable, who fitt'ft above these heavens
To us, invifible, or dimly feen
In thefe thy loweft works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ve fons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with fongs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, Him laft, Him midst, and without end.
Faireft of ftars, laft in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'ft the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy fphere,
While day arifes, that fweet hour of prime.
Thou fun, of this great world, both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, found his praise
In thy eternal courfe, both when thou clim'st,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'ft the orient fun, now fly'st,
With the fix'd ftars, fix'd in their orb that flies ;
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In miftic dance, not without fong, refound
His praife, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to your great MAKER ftill new praise.
Ye mifts and exhalations that now rise
From hill or ftreaming lake, dufky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rife!
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