Some shout him, and some hang upon his car

To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave

Their 'kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy;

While others not so satisfied unhorse

The gilded equipage, and turning loose

His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved

the state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, That finds out every crevice of the head That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, And his own cattle must suffice him soon. Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, And dedicate a tribute, in its use And just direction sacred, to a thing Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there. Encomium in old time was poets' work, But poets having lavishly long since Exhausted all materials of the art, The task now falls into the public hand. And I, contented with an humble theme, Have poured my stream of panegyric down The vale of nature, where it creeps and winds Among her lovely works, with a secure And unambitious course, reflecting clear If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes. And I am recompensed, and deem the toils Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine May stand between an animal and woe, And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The groans of nature in this nether world, Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promised Sabbath comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world. And what remains Of this tempestuous state of human things, Is merely as the working of a sea Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. For He whose car the winds are, and the clouds The dust that waits upon his sultry march When sin hath moved him and his wrath is hot, Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend Propitious, in his chariot paved with love, And what his storms have blasted and defaced For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch; Nor can the wonders it records be sung To meaner music, and not suffer loss. But when a poet, or when one like me, Happy to rove among poetic flowers, Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, Such is the impulse and the spur he feels To give it praise proportioned to its worth, That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a task more arduous still. Oh, scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see Though but in distant prospect, and not feel His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, , And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance; and the land once lean, Or fertile only in its own disgrace, Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. The various seasons woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring, The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, For there is none to covet, all are full. The lion and the libbard and the bear Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon Together, or all gambol in the shade Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. Antipathies are none. No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now; the mother sees And smiles to see her infant's playfal hand Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, To stroke his azure neck, or to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. All creatures worship man, and all mankind One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; That creeping pestilence is driven away, The breath of heaven has chased it. In the hesrt No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Disease Is not. The pure and uncontaminate blood Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. One song employs all nations, and all cry, "Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!" The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other; and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy, Till nation after nation taught the strain, Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Dehold the measure of the promise filled, See Salem built, the labour of a God! Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;

All kmgdoms and all princes of the earth

Flock to that light; the glory of all lands

Flows into her, unbounded is her joy,

And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,

Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar1 there;

The looms of Ormus, and the mmes of Ind,

And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there.

Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls,

And in her streets, and in her spacious courts

Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there

Kneels with the native of the farthest West,

And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand

And worships. Her report has travelled forth

Into all lands. From every clime they come

To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy,

O Sion! an assembly such as earth

Saw never, such as heaven stoops down to see.

Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length restored. So God has greatly purposed; who would else In his dishonoured works himself endure Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) A world that does not dread and hate his laws, And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good, How pleasant in itself what pleases him. Here every drop of honey hides a sting; Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, And even the joy that haply some poor heart Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint From touch of human hps, at best impure. Oh, for a world in principle as chaste As this is gross and selfish! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway That govern all things here, shouldering aside The meek and modest truth, and forcing her To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men. Where violence shall never lift the sword, Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, Leaving the poor no remedy but tears. Where he that fills an office, shall esteem The occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite: where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts

1 Nebaioth and Kodar, the sons of Ishmael and progenitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to, may be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.—C.

And equity; not jealous more to guard
A worthless form, than to decide aright
Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,
Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace)
With lean performance ape the work of love.
Come then, and added to thy many crowns
Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,
Thou who alone art worthy! it was thine
By ancient covenant ere nature's birth,
And thou hast made it thine by purchase since,
And overpaid its value with thy blood.
Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts
Thy title is engraven with a pen
Dipt in the fountam of eternal love.
Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay
Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see
The dawn of thy last advent long-desired,
Would creep into the bowels of the hills,
And flee for safety to the falling rocks.
The very spirit of the woild is tired
Of its own taunting question asked so long,
"Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?"
The infidel has shot his bolts away,
Till his exhausted quiver yielding none,
He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled,
And aims them at the shield of truth again.
The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,
That hides dtvinity from mortal eyes, ,

And all the mysteries to faith proposed
Insulted and traduced, are cast aside
As useless to the moles and to the bats.
They now are deemed the faithful, and are praised,
Who constant only in rejecting thee,
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
And quit their office for their error's sake.
Blind and hi love with darkness! yet even these
Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee
Thy name, adoring, and then preach the man.
So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare
The world takes little thought; who will may preach,
And what they will. All pastors are alike
To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none.
Two gods divide them all, pleasure and gain.
For these they live, they sacrifice to these,
And in their service wage perpetual war
With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts,
And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth
To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce,
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.
Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down
The features of the last degenerate times,
Exhibit every lineament of these.

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Come then, and added to thy many crowns
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,
Due to thy last and most effectual work,
Thy word fulfilled, the conquest of a world!
He is the happy man, whose life even now
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;
Who doomed to an obscure but tranquil state
Is pleased with it, and were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn while he must
Below the skies, but having there his home.
The world o'erlooks him in her bushy search
Of objects more illustrious in her view;
And occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds
Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems
Her honours, her emoluments, her joys.
Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,
And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird
That flutters least is longest on the wing.
Ask him indeed what trophies he has raised,
Or what achievements of immortal fame
He purposes, and he shall answer—none.
His warfare is within. There unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
And never-withering wreaths, compared with which
The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds.
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,
(That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks
Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see
Deems him a cypher in the works of God),
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,
When Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at eventide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself.
Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns
Of little worth, and idler in the best,
If author of no mischief and some good,

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