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And eyes intent upon the scanty herb
It yields them; or recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away
From inland regions to the distant main.
Man views it and admires, but rests content
With what he views. The landscape has his praise,
But not its Author 26. Unconcern'd who form'd
The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more.


Not so the mind that has been touch'd from heaven, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught

To read His wonders, in whose thought the world,
Fair as it is, existed ere it was.

Not for its own sake merely, but for His

Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise;
Praise that from earth resulting as it ought

To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once
Its only just proprietor in Him.

The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed
New faculties, or learns at least to employ
More worthily the powers she own'd before;
Discerns in all things, what with stupid gaze'
Of ignorance till then she overlook'd,
A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms
Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute
The unambiguous footsteps of the God

25 See nature in some partial narrow shape,
And let the Author of the whole escape.


Dunciad, iv. 455.

27 But wandering oft with brute unconscious gaze Man marks not Thee.

Thomson. Hymn, 28.




Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.
Much conversant with heaven, she often holds
With those fair ministers of light to man
That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp,
Sweet conference; enquires what strains were they
With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste
To gratulate the new-created earth,



Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God

Shouted for joy." Tell me, ye shining hosts
That navigate a sea that knows no storms
Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud 28,
If from your elevation, whence ye view
Distinctly scenes invisible to man,
And systems of whose birth no tidings yet
Have reach'd this nether world 29, ye spy a race
Favour'd as ours, transgressors from the womb
And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,
And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?
As one who long detain'd on foreign shores
Pants to return, and when he sees afar

His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks
From the green wave emerging, darts an eye
Radiant with joy towards the happy land;
So I with animated hopes behold

And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,
That show like beacons in the blue abyss


28 And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
29 Fields of radiance whose unfaded light
Has travelled the profound six thousand years,
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things.
Akenside. Pleas. of Imag. i. 204.

S. C.-9.







Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit home
From toilsome life to never ending rest.
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires
That give assurance of their own success,
And that infused from heaven, must thither tend."
So reads he nature whom the lamp of truth
Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!
Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost
With intellects bemazed in endless doubt,
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,
With means that were not till by thee employ'd, 850
Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strength
Been less, or less benevolent than strong.

They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears
That hear not, or receive not their report.
In vain thy creatures testify of thee

Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed
A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,
And with the boon gives talents for its use.
Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain

Possess the heart, and fables false as hell,
Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death
The uninform'd and heedless souls of men.
We give to Chance, blind Chance, ourselves as blind,
The glory of thy work, which yet appears
Perfect and unimpeachable of blame,
Challenging human scrutiny, and proved
Then skilful most when most severely judged.




But Chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st: 870 Thy Providence forbids that fickle power

(If power she be that works but to confound,)
To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws.

Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can
Instruction, and inventing to ourselves


Gods such as guilt makes welcome, Gods that sleep, Or disregard our follies, or that sit

Amused spectators of this bustling stage.

Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure,


Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause
For which we shunn'd and hated thee before.
Then we are free: then liberty like day

Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not
Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song,

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works,

Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,

And adds his rapture to the general praise.



In that blest moment, Nature throwing wide
Her vale opaque, discloses with a smile
The Author of her beauties, who retired
Behind his own creation, works unseen
By the impure, and hears his power denied.
Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, eternal Word!
From thee departing, they are lost and rove
At random, without honour, hope, or peace.
From thee is all that sooths the life of man,



With thee conversing, I forget all time.
Par. Lost, iv. 639.



His high endeavour, and his glad success,
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But oh thou bounteous Giver of all good,
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor, 905
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

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