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Praise due to God for his wonderful works.
1. MY GOD! all nature owns thy sway;
Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day!
When all thy lov'd creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre breaks,
And bathes in dew the op'ning flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong!
2. Or when, in paler tints array'd,
The evening slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enliv'ning bloom,
every fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire!
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the soften'd heart to thee.
3. In every scene thy hands have dress'd
In every form by thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,
Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread;
In every note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,
The cavern's depth, or echoing grove,
A voice is heard of praise and love.
4. As o'er thy work the seasons roll,
And sooth, with change of bliss, the soul,
O never may their smiling train
Pass o'er the human scene in vain!
But oft, as on the charm we gaze,
Attune the wond'ring soul to praise ;
And be the joys that we most prize,
The joys that from thy favor rise!
The happy end.
1. WHEN life's tempestuous storms are o'er, How calm he meets the friendly shore, Who liv'd averse to sin!
Such peace on virtue's path attends,
That, where the sinner's pleasure ends
The good man's joys begin.
2. See smiling patience smooth his brow,
See the kind angels waiting now,
To lift his soul on high!
While eager for the blest abode,
He joins with them to praise the God,
Who taught him how to die.
3. The horrors of the grave and hell,
Those sorrows which the wicked feel,
In vain their gloom display;
For he who bids yon comet burn,
Or makes the night descend, can turn
Their darkness into day.
4. No sorrow drowns his lifted eyes;
Nor horror wrests the struggling sighs;
As from the sinner's breast:
His God, the God of peace and love,
Pours sweetest comforts from above,
And sooths his heart to rest!
A kind and gentle temper of great importance to the happiness
1. SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our mis'ry from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save or serve, but all can please;
Oh! let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
2. Large bounties to bestow, we wish in vain :
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With pow'r to grace them, or to crown with he
Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees
To all the gift of minist'ring to ease.
3. The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flatt'ry, and all price above;
The mild forbearance of another's fault;
The taunting word suppress'd, as soon as thought
On these Heav'n bade the sweets of life depend:
And crush'd ill fortune when it made a friend.
4. A solitary blessing few can find;
Our joys with those we love are intertwin'd:
And he whose wakeful tenderness removes
Th' obstructing thorn which wounds the friend he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path aloné,
But scatters roses to adorn his own.
5. Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmix'd with hate,
Make up in number what they want in weight:
These, and a thousand griefs, minute as these,
Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace.
1. HAIL, artless Simplicity, beautiful maid,
In the genuine attractions of nature array'd:
Let the rich and the proud, the gay and the vain,
Still laugh at the graces that move in thy train.
2. No charm in thy modest allurements they find;
The pleasures they follow a sting leave behind.
Can criminal passion enrapture the breast,
Like virtue, with peace, and serenity blest?
3. O would you Simplicity's precepts attend,
Like us, with delight at her altar you'd bend; The pleasures she yields would with joy be embrac❜d; You'd practise from virtue, and love them from taste. 4. The linnet enchants us the bushes among ;
Care and Generosity.
1. OLD Care, with industry and art,
At length so well had play'd his part,
He heap'd up such an ample store,
That av'rice could not sigh for more.
2. Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold,
Though cheap the musician, yet sweet is the song ; We catch the soft warbling in air as it floats, And with ecstasy hang on the ravishing notes: 5. Our water is drawn from the clearest of springs, And our food, nor disease, nor satiety brings: Our mornings are cheerful, our labors are blest, Our evenings are pleasant, our nights crown'd with rest. 6. From our culture yon garden its ornament finds, And we catch at the hint of improving our minds; To live to some purpose we constantly try ;
And we mark by our actions the days as they fly 7. Since such are the joys that Simplicity yields,
We may well be content with our woods and our fields. How useless to us, then, ye great, were your wealth, When without it we purchase both pleasure and health.
The land all round him was his own,
With corn his crowded gran'ries groan.
3. In short, so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain :
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
4. Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere, and free;
Her name was Generosity.
5. 'Twas hers the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide;
The pilgrim there might safe abide.
6. For th' hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew,
There sickness laid her aching head,
And there distress could find a bed.
7. Each hour, with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd the blessings round the land.
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And num'rous was th' accepting throng.
8. At length pale pen'ry seiz'd the dame,
And fortune fled, and ruin came;
She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend. 9. All blam'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before.
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her, came Care ;
10. And cried, "My dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine,
All will be well-you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.
11. Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart
You still shall act the gen'rous part."
The bridal came, great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest.
12. The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd with care and glee,
And she was nam'd Economy.
1.3. They styl'd her fair discretion's queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind,
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.
1. WIDE over the tremulous sea,
The moon spread her mantle of light; And the gale, gently dying away,
Breath'd soft on the bosom of night. 2. On the forecastle Maratan stood,
And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood;
His sighs pass'd unheard in the gale. 3. "Ah wretch!" in wild anguish, he cried, "From country and liberty torn! Ah, Maratan, would thou hadst died,
Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne !
"6 Through the groves of Angola I stray'd,
Love and hope made my bosom their home;
There I talk'd with my favorite maid,
Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come.
5. "From the thicket the man-hunter sprung;
My cries echo'd loud through the air;
There was fury and wrath on his tongue;
He was deaf to the voice of despair.
6. "Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks, ever flow;
Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart;
And still may the sorrows of wo,
Drink deep of the stream of my heart. 7." But hark! o'er the silence of night
My Adila's accents I hear;
And mournful, beneath the wan light,
I see her lov'd image appear.
8." Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wave And fondly her partner she chides,
Who lngers so long from his grave. 9. "Oh, Maratan! haste thee," she cries, "Here the reign of oppression is o'er The tyrant is robb'd of his prize,
And Adila sorrows no more.
10." Now sinking amidst the dim ray, Her form seems to fade on my view: O stay thee, my Adila, stay!——
She beckons, and I must pursue. 11. "To-morrow the white man, in vain, Shall proudly account me his slave: