An agency divine, to make him know
His moment when to sink and when to rise,
Age after age, than to arrest his course ?
All we behold is miracle, but feen
So duly, all is miracle in vain.
Where now the vital energy that mov'd,
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph
Through th' imperceptible meandering veins
Of leaf and flow'r ? It seeps; and th' icy touc
Of unprolific winter has impress'd
A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide.
But let the months go round, a few short months,
And all shall be restor’d. These naked shoots,
Barren as lances, among which the wind
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,
Shall put their graceful foliage on again,
And more aspiring, and with ampler spread,
Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.
Then, each in its peculiar horiors clad,
Shall publish, even to the distant eye,


Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich
In streaming gold; syringa iv'ry pure;
The scented and the scentless rose, this red
And of an humbler growth, the * other tall,
And throwing up into the darkest gloom
Of neighb’ring cypress, or more sable yew,
Her silver globes, light as the foamy furf
That the wind fevers from the broken wave;
The lilac, various in array, now white,
Now fanguine, and her beauteous head now set
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if
Studious of ornament, yet unresolv'd
Which hue lhe most approv'd, she chose them all ;
Copious of Pow’rs the woodbine, pale and wan,
But well compensating her fickly looks
With never-cloying odours, early and late;
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm
Of flow'rs, like flies cloathing her slender rods,
That scarce a leaf appears ; ' mezerion too,
Though leafless, well attir'd, and thick beset

* The Guelder-rose,

With blushing wreaths, investing ev'ry spray;
Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,
Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd,

Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all

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The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf
Makes more confpicuous, and illumines more
The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars.-
These have been, and these shall be in their day,
And all this uniform, uncolour'd scene,
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,
And Alush into variety again.
From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,
Is Nature's progress when she lectures man
In heav'nly truth ; evincing, as she makes
The grand transition, that there lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are his,
That make so gay the folitary place
Where no eye fees them. And the fairer forms


That cultivation glories in, are his.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year ;
He marks the bounds which winter may not pass,
And blunts his pointed fury: in its cafe,
Ruffet and rude, folds uu the tender germ
Uninjur'd, with inimitable art,
And, ere one flow'ry season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next.

Some fay that, in the origin of things, When all creation started into birth, The infant elements receiv'd a law From which they swerve not since. That under force Of that controuling ordinance they move, And need not his immediate hand, who first Prescrib'd their course, to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God Th’incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare

great Artificer of all that moves Vol. II.




The stress of a continual act, the pain
Of unremitted vigilance and care,
As too laborious and fevere a task.
So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems,
To span Omnipotence, and measure might
That knows no measure, by the scanty rule
And standard of his own, that is to-day,
And is not ere to-morrow's fun down.
But how should matter occupy a charge
Dull as it is, and satisfy a law
So vast in its demands, unless impellid
To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,
And under pressure of some conscious cause?
The Lord of all, himself through all diffus’d,
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect
Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire
By which the mighty process is maintain'd,
Who Neeps not, is not weary; in whose sight
Slow-circling ages are as transient days ;


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