ON PROVIDENCE.

GOD works in a myfterious way,

His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the fea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright defigns,
And works his sov'reign will.

Ye feeble faints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye fo much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break In bleffings on your head.

Judge not the LORD by feeble sense,
But truft him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes are rip'ning faft,
Unfolding every hour:

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But WAIT to smell the flower,

Blind unbelief is fure to err,

And fcan his work in vain; GOD is his own Interpreter, And he shall make it plain.

ON THE WORDS,

"If thou knoweft who it is," &c.

Ат

AT Jacob's well a Stranger fought

His ardent thirst to clear;

Samaria's daughter little thought

The FONT of LIFE fo near :

This had she known, her panting mind For LIVING DRAUGHTS had figh'd; Nor had Meffiah, ever kind,

Those living draughts deny'd. And Jacob's well (no glass so true) Britannia's image shows; Meffiah travels Britain through,

But who the Stranger knows? Yet Britain muft the Stranger know, Or fcon her lofs deplore :

Behold the living waters flow;

Come drink and thirst no more!

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

[GOLDSMITH]

SWEET Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab’ring swain,
Where fmiling fspring its earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's lingering bloom delay'd,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please.
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush with feats beneath the fhade,
For talking age and wifp'ring lovers made.

Sweet fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn, Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidft thy bow'rs, the tyrant's hand is feen, And defolation faddens all thy green:

One only master grafps the whole demain,

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

No more the glassy brook reflects the day,

But choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades a folitary guest,

The hollow-founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unweary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And trembling, fhrinking from the fpoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land..

Ill fares the land, to haft'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay! Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade : A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peafantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd.

A time there was, ere England's 'griefs began, When ev'ry rood of ground maintain❜d its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more. His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Ufurp the land and difpoffefs the swain;

Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rofe,
Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repofe;
And ev'ry want to luxury ally'd,

And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm defires that afk'd but little room
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
Thefe, far departing, feek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power.
Here as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, thy ruin'd grounds,
And many a year elaps'd, return to view

Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew:
Here, as with doubtful, penfive steps I range,
Trace ev'ry scene, and wonder at the change,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has giv'n my shareI still had hopes, my latest hours to crown ; Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;