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subjects, such as the Psalms of David, and the holy transports interspersed in the other sacred writings, or such as the moral Odes of Horace, and the ancient Lyricks; I persuade myself that the Christian preacher would find abundant aid from the poet, in his design to diffuse virtue and allure souls to God. If the heart were first inflamed from Heaven, and the muse were not left alone to form the devotion, and pursue a cold scent, but only called in as an assistant to the worship, then the song would end where the inspiration ceases; the whole composure would be of a piece, all meridian light and meridian fervour; and the same pious flame would be propagated, and kept glowing in the heart of him that reads. Some of the shorter odes of the two poets now mentioned, and a few of the Rev. Mr. Norris's Essays in verse, are convincing instances of the success of this proposal.

It is my opinion also, that the free and unconfined numbers of Pindar, or the noble measures of Milton without rhyme, would best maintain the dignity of the theme, as well as give a loose to the devout soul, nor check the raptures of her faith and love. Though, in my feeble attempts of this kind, I have too often fettered my thoughts in the narrow metre of our Psalm translators: I have contracted and cramped the sense, or rendered it obscure and feeble, by the too speedy and regular returns of rhyme.

HORE LYRICÆ.

BOOK I.

SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY.

WORSHIPPING WITH FEAR.

WHO dares attempt the eternal name, With notes of mortal sound? Dangers and glories guard the theme, And spread despair around.

Destruction waits to obey his frown,
And Heaven attends his smile:
A wreath of lightning arms his crown,
But love adorns it still.

Celestial King! our spirits lie,

Trembling, beneath thy feet,

And wish, and cast a longing eye,
To reach thy lofty seat.

When shall we see the Great Unknown,
And in thy presence stand?
Reveal the splendours of thy throne,
But shield us with thy hand.

In thee what endless wonders meet!
What various glory shines!
The crossing rays too fiercely beat
Upon our fainting minds.

Angels are lost in sweet surprise
If thou unveil thy grace;

And humble awe runs through the skies,
When wrath arrays thy face.

When mercy joins with majesty,
To spread their beams abroad,
Not all their fairest minds on high
Are shadows of a God.

Thy works the strongest seraph sings
In a too feeble strain,

And labors hard on all his strings
To reach thy thoughts in vain.

Created powers, how weak they be!
How short our praises fall!
So much akin to nothing we,

And thou the eternal All.

ASKING LEAVE TO SING.

YET, mighty God indulge my tongue,

Nor let thy thunders roar,

Whilst the young notes and venturous song To worlds of glory soar.

If thou my daring flight forbid,
The muse folds up her wings;
Or at thy word her slender reed
Attempts almighty things.

Her slender reed, inspired by thee,
Bids a new Eden grow,
With blooming life on every tree,
And spreads a heaven below.

She mocks the trumpet's loud alarms,
Filled with thy dreadful breath:
And calls the angelic hosts to arms,
To give the nations death.

But when she tastes her Saviour's love,
And feels the rapture strong,
Scarce the divinest harp above
Aims at a sweeter song.

DIVINE JUDGMENTS.

NOT from the dust my sorrows spring,
Nor drop my comforts from the lower skies:
Let all the baneful planets shed

Their mingled curses on my head,

How vain their curses, if the eternal King
Look thro' the clouds and bless me with his eyes!
Creatures, with all their boasted sway,

Are but his slaves and must obey ;

They wait their orders from above, And execute his word, the vengeance, or the love.

'Tis by a warrant from his hand,

The gentler gales are bound to sleep: The north wind blusters and assumes command Over the desert and the deep;

Old Boreas with his freezing powers, Turns the earth iron, makes the ocean glass, Arrests the dancing rivulets as they pass,

And chains them moveless to their shores;

The grazing ox lows to the gelid skies,

Walks o'er the marble meads with withering eyes, Walks o'er the solid lakes, snuffs up the wind, and dies.

Fly to the polar world my song,

And mourn the pilgrims there (a wretched throng!)

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