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النشر الإلكتروني

The natures of created hosts are known,
With all their ends and use to me alone.
Ye pass the only God, and dreaming feign
A thousand gods, the coinage of the brain :
Dress'd in my powers and virtues they preside;
Lessen'd in parts my essence ye divide:
I cannot lost in parts dissever'd stray,
Nor can ye tear me from myself away.
Compounded matter may divided fall;
Me none created, who created all :

None can divide: nor that I will'd to be
And form'd from nothing is a part of me.
Rise, mortal! be thy grateful incense given
To the one God: the unity of heaven.
To Him raise temples: no cemented pile
From chisel'd marble of the Parian isle;
From Sparta's quarries green, or Synna's mines,
Where the vein'd rock with native purple shines;
For me the temple of the mind alone
Delights; I joy not in a fane of stone.
This is my dwelling: this my place of rest,
Worthy a heavenly and eternal guest.
And I have found the' immaculate abode;
Within the human form the light has flowed,
The glory of the God: illumed from high
The' adopted substance glowed with Deity;
The' illuminating God his seat approved,
And rested in the temple which he loved.

I framed the form of man in perfect mould,
And bade him look on high, and heaven behold;
With upright mien, and attitude sublime,
And eyes that soar'd beyond the' ethereal clime.
I bade to me his utmost strength aspire,
His being's faculties, his soul's desire :

He on base ore his earthward gaze depress'd,

And shook the' inspiring godhead from the breast.
"Twas mine to rear him with restoring love;
My spirit then descended from above;
And in this frame of animated clay
Shed with informing light a heavenly ray.
Stooping from heaven the Majesty on high
Raised the fallen manhood into Deity;
On man the knowledge of himself bestow'd,
Transferr❜d from earth, and interfused with God.'



An Epistle.

BEAR up, Sarissa, through the ruffling storms
Of a vain vexing world: tread down the cares,
Those rugged thorns that lie across the road,
Nor spend a tear upon them. Trust the Muse;
She sings experienced truth: this briny dew,
This rain of eyes will make the briars grow.
We travel through a desert, and our feet
Have measured a fair space, have left behind
A thousand dangers, and a thousand snares
Well scaped. Adieu! ye horrors of the dark,
Ye finish'd labours, and ye tedious toils
Of days and hours: the twinge of real smart
And the false terrors of ill boding dreams
Vanish together, be alike forgot,

For ever blended in one common grave.

Farewell, ye waxing and ye waning moons, That we have watch'd behind the flying clouds

On Night's dark hill, or setting or ascending,
Or in meridian height: then silence reign'd
O'er half the world; then ye beheld our tears,
Ye witness'd our complaints, our kindred groans,
(Sad harmony!) while with your beamy horns
Or richer orb ye silver'd o'er the green

Where trod our feet, and lent a feeble light
To mourners.

Now ye have fulfill'd your round,
Those hours are fled, farewell! Months that are gone
Are gone for ever, and have borne away
Each his own load. Our woes and sorrows past,
Mountainous woes, still lessen as they fly
Far off. So billows in a stormy sea,
Wave after wave (a long succession) roll
Beyond the ken of sight: the sailors safe
Look far astern till they have lost the storm,
And shout their boisterous joys. A gentler Muse
Sings thy dear safety, and commands thy cares
To dark oblivion buried deep in night.
Lose them, Sarissa, and assist my song.

Awake thy voice, sing how the slender line Of Fate's immortal Now divides the past From all the future with eternal bars, Forbidding a return. The past temptations No more shall vex us; every grief we feel Shortens the destined number; every pulse Beats a sharp moment of the pain away, And the last stroke will come. By swift degrees Time sweeps us off, and we shall soon arrive At life's sweet period: O celestial point, That ends this mortal story!

But if a glimpse of light, with flattering ray, Breaks through the clouds of life, or wandering fire Amidst the shades invite your doubtful feet,



Beware the dancing meteor; faithless guide,
That leads the lonesome pilgrim wide astray
To bogs and fens and pits and certain death!
Should vicious pleasure take an angel-form
And at a distance rise, by slow degrees,
Treacherous, to wind herself into your heart,
Stand firm aloof; nor let the gaudy phantom
Too long allure your gaze; the just delight
That Heaven indulges lawful must obey
Superior powers; nor tempt your thoughts too far
In slavery to sense, nor swell your hope

To dangerous size. If it approach your feet,
And court your hand, forbid the' intruding joy
To sit too near your heart: still may our souls
Claim kindred with the skies, nor mix with dust
Our better-born affections: leave the globe,
A nest for worms, and hasten to our home.

O, there are gardens of the' immortal kind,
That crown the heavenly Eden's rising hills
With beauty and with sweets; no lurking mischief
Dwells in the fruit, nor serpent twines the boughs;
The branches bend laden with life and bliss
Ripe for the taste, but 'tis a steep ascent:
Hold fast the golden chain * let down from Heaven,
"Twill help your feet and wings; I feel its force
Draw upwards; fasten'd to the pearly gate
It guides the way unerring: happy clue

Through this dark wild! "Twas Wisdom's noblest


All join'd by Power Divine, and every link is love.

• The Gospel.



A Sacred Ode.

VENGEANCE, arise from thy infernal bed, And pour thy tempest on his guilty head!' Thus Heaven's decree, in thunder's sound, Shook the dark abyss profound.—

The' unchain'd furies come!

Pale Melancholy stalks from hell;
The' abortive offspring of her womb,
Despair and Anguish, round her yell.
By sleepless terror Saul possess'd,

Deep feels the fiend within his tortured breast,
Midnight spectres round him howl:
Before his eyes

In troops they rise,

And seas of horror overwhelm his soul.

Haste; to Jesse's son repair:
He best can sweep the lyre,
Wake the solemn-sounding air,
And lead the vocal choir :

On every string soft-breathing raptures dwell,
To soothe the throbbings of the troubled breast;
Whose magic voice can bid the tides of passion
Or lull the raging storm to rest.

Sunk on his couch, and loathing day,
The Heaven-forsaken monarch lay:


To the sad couch the shepherd now drew near; And, while the' obedient choir stood round, Prepared to catch the soul-commanding sound, He dropp'd a generous tear.

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