ADDRESSED TO MISS MACARTNEY, AFTERWARDS MRS. GREVILLE, ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 1762. AND dwells there in a female heart, Dwells there a wish in such a breast To smother in ignoble rest At once both bliss and woe? Far be the thought, and far the strain, Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise) In justice to the various powers With lenient balm may Oberon hence With ev'ry herb that blunts the sense Mankind received from heaven. "Oh! if my Sov'reign Author please, Far be it from my fate, To live unblest in torpid ease, And slumber on in state; Each tender tie of life defied, Whence social pleasures spring; Some Alpine mountain wrapt in snow, In vain warm suns their influence shed, What though in scaly armour dress'd, The shafts of woe, in such a breast 'Tis woven in the world's great plan, 'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws Our self-approving bosom draws Thus grief itself has comforts dear, And ecstasy attends the tear, When virtue bids it flow. For when it streams from that pure source, To check, or alter from its course Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, Let no low thought suggest the prayer! Sweet Sensibility! Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen, A train, attendant on their queen, The jocund Loves in Hymen's band, And generous Friendship hand in hand, With Pity's watery sight. The gentler Virtues too are join'd, S. C.-8. E The Arts come smiling in the close, And lend celestial fire; The marble breathes, the canvass glows, "Still may my melting bosom cleave So Pity shall take Virtue's part, And fashioning my soften'd heart, Prepare it for the sky." This artless vow may Heaven receive, And fond maid, approve; So may your guiding angel give So Whate'er you wish or love. may the rosy-finger'd hours And every joy, which now is yours, And suns to come, as round they wheel, Your golden moments bless, With all a tender heart can feel, Or lively fancy guess. OLNEY HYMNS. I. WALKING WITH GOD. Gen. v. 24. OH! for a closer walk with God; Where is the blessedness I knew What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! Return, O holy Dove, return, I hate the sins that made thee mourn, The dearest idol I have known, Help me to tear it from thy throne, So shall my walk be close with God, So purer light shall mark the road That leads me to the Lamb. |