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النشر الإلكتروني

Hail, whirlwinds, hurricanes and floods,

That all the leafy standards strip,

And bear down, with a mighty sweep,
The riches of the fields, and honors of the woods ;

Storms, that ravage o'er the deep,
And bury millions in the waves ;

Earthquakes, that in midnight sleep
Turn cities into heaps, and make our beds our graves :
While you disperse your mortal harms,
'Tis the Creator's voice that sounds


loud alarms, When guilt with louder cries provokes a God to arms. Oh! for a message from above,

To bear my spirit up,
Some pledge of my Creator's love,
To calm my terrors and support my hope !

Let waves and thunders mix and roar,
Be thou my God, and the whole world is mine :

While Thou art Sovereign, I'm secure;

I shall be rich till Thou art poor ; For all I fear and all I wish, heaven, earth, and hell, are thine.

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Softly the tuneful shepherd leads
The Hebrew flocks to flowery meads,
He marks their path with notes divine,
While fountains spring with oil and win
Rivers of

attend his song,
And draw their milky train along :
He jars ; and lo! the flints are broke,
But honey issues from the rock.
When kindling with victorious fire,
He shakes his lance across the lyre ;
The lyre resounds unknown alarms,
And sets the thunderer in arms.
Behold the God! the Almighty King,
Rides on a tempest's glorious wing;


His ensigns lighten round the sky,
And moving legions sound on high.
Ten thousand cherubs wait his course,
Chariots of fire, and flaming horse :
Earth trembles ; and her mountains flow
At his approach, like melting snow.
But who those frowns of earth can draw,
That strike heaven, earth, and hell, with awe?
Red lightning from his eyelids broke,
His voice was thunder, hail, and smoke.
He spake! the cleaving waters fled,
And stars beheld the ocean's bed:
While the great Master strikes his lyre,
You see the affrighted floods retire.
In heaps th' affrighted billows stand,
Waiting the changes of his hand ;
He leads his Israel through the sea,
And watery mountains guard their way.
Turning his hand with sovereign sweep,
He drowns all Egypt in the deep ;
Then guides the tribes, a glorious band,
Through deserts to the promised land.
Here camps with wide-embattled force,
Here gates and bulwarks stop their course
He storms the mounds, the bulwark falls:
The harp lies strewed with ruined walls.
See his broad sword flies o'er the strings,
And mows down nations with their kings
From every chord his bolts are hurled,
And vengeance smites the rebel world.
Lo! the great poet shifts the scene,
And shows the face of God serene,
Truth, meekness, peace, salvation ride,
With guards of justice at his side.

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I'm borne aloft, and leave the crowd,
I sail upon a morning cloud,

Skirted with dawning gold :
Mine eyes beneath the opening day
Command the globe with wide survey,
Where ants in busy millions play,

And try and heave the mould. “Are these the things" (my passion cried) « That we call men ? Are these allied

To the fair worlds of light? They have rased out their Maker's name, Graven on their minds with pointed flame,

In strokes divinely bright. “Wretches ! they hate their native skies; If an ethereal thought arise,

Or spark of virtue shine, With cruel force they damp its plumes, Choke the young fire with sensual fumes,

With business, lust, or wine. “Lo! how they throng with panting breath

The broad descending road, That leads unerring down to death,

Nor miss the dark abode." Thus while I drop a tear or two On the wild herd, a noble few Dare to stray upward, and pursue

The unbeaten way to God. I meet Myrtillo mounting high,

I know his candid soul afar ;
Here Dorylis and Thyrsis fly,

Each like a rising star ;
Charin I see, and Fidea there,
I see them help each other's flight,

And bless them as they go:
They soar beyond my laboring sight,

And leave their loads of mortal care,

But not their love, below.
On heaven, their home, they fix their eyes,

The temple of their God :
With morning incense up they rise,
Sublime, and through the lower skies,

Spread their perfumes abroad.
Across the road a seraph flew,
“Mark” (said he) “ that happy pair,
Marriage helps devotion there;
When kindred minds their God pursue,
They break with double vigor through

The dull incumbent air."
Charmed with the pleasure and surprise,

My soul adores and sings-
“Blest be the power that springs their flight,

That streaks their path with heavenly light, That turns their love to sacrifice,

And joins their zeal for wings.”

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How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course that he run,
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there followed some droppings of rain ;
But now the fair traveller's come to the west,
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

And foretells a bright rising again.
Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,

And travels his heavenly way:
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,

Of rising in brighter array.


THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679. At thirteen he was admitted to Trinity College, where, in 1700, he took the degree of Master of Arts. He often visited England, and was the friend of Pope and Swift. He obtained the Archdeaconry of Clogher, in his twentysixth year; and he died at Chester, on his way home to Ireland, in 1717. “ The compass of Parnell's poetry,” says Mr. Campbell,“ is not extensive, but it is peculiarly delightful. It is like a flower that has been trained and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air."





By the blue taper's trembling light
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at least the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire
In dimness from the view retire;
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves ;
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.

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