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Chequer'd variety in all her forms, Which the vague mind attract and still suspend With sweet perplexity. What are yon towers,' The work of labouring man and clumsy art, Seen with the ring-dove's nest—on that tall beech Her pensile house the feather'd artist buildsThe rocking winds molest her not ; for see, With such due poise the wond'rous fabric's hung, That, like the compass in the bark, it keeps True to itself, and stedfast ev'n in storms. Thou idiot, that assert'st there is no God, View, and be dumb for everGo bid Vitruvius or Palladio yield The bee his mansion, or the ant her caveGo call Correggio, or let Titian come To paint the hawthorn's bloom, or teach the cherry To blush with just vermilion-hence awayHence, ye profane! for God himself is here. Vain were the attempt, and impious, to trace Through all his works the’ Artificer divine And though nor shining sun, nor twinkling star, Bedeck'd the crimson curtains of the sky; Though neither vegetable, beast nor bird, Were extant on the surface of this ball, Nor lurking gem beneath ; though the great sea Slept in profound stagnation, and the air Had left no thunder to pronounce its Maker ; Yet man at home, within himself, might find The Deity immense, and in that frame So fearfully, so wonderfully made, See and adore his providence and power
and I adore-O God most bounteous! Infinite of Goodness and of Glory!
The knee that thou hast shap'd, shall bend to thee, The tongue which thou hast tun'd shall chant thy
praise, And thy own image, the immortal soul, Shall.consecrate herself to thee forever,
OMNISCIENCE OF THE SUPREME
(ADDRESSED TO THE ARCHBISHOP OF
CANTERBURY.) Arise, divine Urania, with new strains To hymn thy God; and thou, immortal fame, Arise and blow thy everlasting trump. All glory to the Omniscient, and praise, And power and domination in the height ! And thou, cherubic gratitude, whose voice To pious ears sounds silverly so sweet, Come with thy precious incense, bring thy gifts, And with thy choicest stores the altar crown. Thou too, my heart, when He, and He alone, Who all things knows, can know with love replete, Regenerate, and pure, pour all thyself A living sacrifice before his throne : And may the' eternal, high mysterious tree, That in the centre of the arched heavens Bears the rich fruit of knowledge, with some branch Stoop to my humble reach, and bless my toil !
When in my mother's womb conceald I lay, A senseless embryo, then my soul thou knew'st, Knew'st all her future workings, every thought, VOL. XXX,
And every faint idea yet unform’d.
What is that secret power, that guides the brutes,
The venerable sage that nightly trims
The learned lamp, to' investigate the powers
When Philomela, ere the cold domain
• The Hen Turkey,
E’er ascertains her course, nor buoy, nor beacon; She, heaven-taught voyager, that sails in air, Courts nor coy west nor east, but instant knows What Newton, or nought sought, or sought in vain.*
Illustrious name, irrefragable proof Of man's vast genius, and the soaring soul! Yet what wert thou to him, who knew his works, Before creation form'd them, long before He measured in the hollow of his hand The' exulting ocean, and the highest heavens He comprehended with a span, and weigh'd The mighty mountains in his golden scales : Who shone supreme; who was himself the light, Ere yet refraction learn'd her skill to paint, And bend athwart the clouds her beauteous bow ?
When knowledge at her father's dread command Resign’d to Israel's king her golden key, Oh, to have join'd the frequent auditors In wonder and delight, that whilom heard Great Solomon descanting on the brutes ! Oh, how sublimely glorious to apply To God's own honour, and good will to man, That wisdom he alone of men possess'd In plentitude so rich, and scope so rare ! How did he rouse the pamper'd silken sons Of bloated ease, by placing to their view The sage industrious ant, the wisest insect, And best economist of all the field ! Though she presumes not by the solar orb To measure times and seasons, nor consults Chaldean calculations, for a guide: Yet conscious that December's on the march, Pointing with icy hand to want and woe,
* The longitude.