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At thy approach the conscious trees
Bend humbly to the tepid breeze,
Labour to the field repairs,
Or chants some love-lorn ditty's air,
fair. O sovereign of the spicy gale,
Of odours pure, and salutary dews,
Oft as thy star its beam renews,
Give me to range thy wholesome hills,
Thy valleys, wash'd with crystal rills,
There, while zephyr softly blows,
And render praises as I ought
To Him whose power and love divine Call’d thee from total void, and bade thy beauty shine.
I cannot ope mine eyes,
My morning-soul and sacrifice !
My God, what is a heart?
Or star, or rainbow, or a part
My God, what is a heart,
Pouring upon it all thy art,
Indeed, man's whole estate
He did not heav'n and carth create,
Teach me thy love to know;
May both the work and workman show:
Blest be the God of love,
Both to be busy and to play,
Who gave me sight alone,
For when he sees my ways, I die!
What have I brought thee home
Which this day's favour did beget ?
My diet, care, and cost,
Of wind to thee whom I have cross'd,
Yet still thou goest on,
Saying to man, it doth suffice:
Thus in thy ebony box
Put our amendment in our way,
I muse, which shows more love
That is the walk, and this the arbour;
My God thou art all love,
But brings a favour from above:
AN AUTUMN MORNING.
Go! let the diving Negro seek
We all pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morn
And gold ne'er here appears,
Sir W. Raleigh.
FAIR DAYS; OR, DAWN'S DECEITFUL. Fair was the dawn; and but e'en now the skies Show'd like to cream, inspir’d with strawberries: But in a sudden all was chang’d and gone, That smild in that first sweet complexion; Then thunder-claps and lightning did conspire To tear the world, or set it all on fire. What! trust to things below, when as we see, As men, the heavens have their hypocrisy.
O day most calm, most bright,
Thy torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou Make up one nian; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The worky days are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.
Man had straight forward gone To endless death: but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on one, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place, so alone,
The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are, On which heaven's palace archéd lies ! The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities; They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden! that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
More plentiful than hope.