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The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When Hope, long ling'ring, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
A transport glows iu all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made whole.
Tis Heav'n, all Heav'n descending on the wings
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
Tis more—'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part,
Tis God himself triumphant in his heart.
O welcome now the Sun's once hated light,
His noonday beams were never half so bright.
Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ
Their hours, their days, in list'ning to his joy;
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys,
Rocks, groves, and streams, must j oin him in his praise
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; These move the censure and illib'ral grin
Of fools, that hate thee and delight in sin:
But these shall last when night has quench'd the
pole, And Heav'n is all departed as a scroll. And when, as Justice has long since decreed, This Earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, Then these thy glorious works, and they who share That hope, which can alone exclude despair, Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, The brightest wonders of an endless day.
Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong To him, that blends no fable with his song) Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, The faithful monitor's and poet's part, Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And while they captivate, inform the mind: Still happier, if he till a thankful soil, And fruit reward his honourable toil: But happier far, who comfort those, that wait To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate: Their language simple, as their manners meek, No shining ornaments have they to seek; Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste, In sorting flow'rs to suit a fickle taste;
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies,
Quo nihil majus meliusve terris
Hor. Lib. iv, Ode 2.
Fairest and foremost of the train, that wait
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known
God, working ever on a social plan,