WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the GOD OF Love.
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Rouse not such ardour in my breast,

As where the noon-tide beam

Flash'd from the broken stream, Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer
I to the woodlands shall repair,

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank shall there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Shall with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands bend my way,

And meet RELIGION there!

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray, Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: With LIBERTY she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.

Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the Night Pours in the north her silver streams of light,

She woos Reflection in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

1795.

THE RACE OF BANQUO.

FLY, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Leave thy guilty sire to die!

O'er the heath the stripling fled,

The wild storm howling round his head;
Fear mightier through the shades of night
Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight;

And still he heard his father's cry,

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Leave thy guilty sire to die!

On every blast was heard the moan,

The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan ; Loathly night-hags join the yell,

Forms of magic! spare my life!

Shield me from the murderer's knife!

Before me dim in lurid light

Float the phantoms of the night

Behind I hear my Father cry,

Fly, son of Banquo- Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space;

Boldly Fleance venture near

Sire of monarchs

spurn at fear.

Sisters, with prophetic breath,

Pour we now the dirge of Death!