Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And man contains it in his breast."
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace;
When thus she spoke :-" Go, rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still;
Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest!"
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy,
Raised, as ancient prophets were,
In heav'nly vision, praise, and pray'r,
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone;
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight,
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song,
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon, that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars, that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field, whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain ;—
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go, search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes,
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
EDWARD YOUNG.
BORN, 1681; DIED, 1765.
THE MAN WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE NOT OF THIS
WORLD.
SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw
What nothing less than angel can exceed,
A man on earth devoted to the skies;
Like ships in seas, while in, above the world.
With aspect mild, and elevated eye,
Behold him seated on a mount serene,
Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm;
All the black cares and tumults of this life,
Like harmless thunders breaking at his feet,
Excite his piety, not impair his peace.
Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave,
A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd! he sees,
Bewildered in the vale; in all unlike!
His full reverse in all! what higher praise?
What stronger demonstration of the right?
The present all their care, the future his.
When public welfare calls, or private want,
They give to fame; his bounty he conceals.
Their virtues varnish nature, his exalt.
Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own.
THE MAN WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE NOT OF THIS WORLD. 55
Theirs the wild chase of false felicities;
His the compos'd possession of the true.
Alike throughout is his consistent peace,
All of one colour, and an even thread;
While party-coloured shreds of happiness,
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them
A madman's robe; each puff of fortune blows
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness.
He sees with other eyes than theirs: where they Behold a sun, he spies a Deity.
They things terrestrial worship as divine;
His hopes, immortal, blow them by as dust
That dims his sight, and shortens his survey,
Which longs, in infinite, to loose all bound.
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)
He lays aside to find his dignity;
No dignity they find in aught besides.
They triumph in externals (which conceal
Man's real glory), proud of an eclipse:
Himself too much he prizes to be proud,
And nothing thinks so great in man as man.
Too dear he holds his int'rest to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade:
Their int'rest, like a lion, lives on prey.
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong;
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n,
Nor stops to think his injurer his foe.
Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace.
A cover'd heart their character defends;
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise.
With nakedness his innocence agrees,
While their broad foliage testifies their fall.
Their no-joys end where his full feast begins;
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.
To triumph in existence his alone;
And his alone triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious course was yesterday complete;
Death then was welcome, yet life still is sweet.
O THOU! Whose balance does the mountains weigh; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey;
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on thy never ceasing goodness calls.
Oh! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep.
Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee.
Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distress'd,
And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd.
Oh! may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made!
May sea and land, and earth and heav'n be joined,
To bring th' eternal Author to my mind!
When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,
May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul! When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, Adore, my heart, the majesty divine.
Grant I may ever, at the morning ray,
Open with prayer the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies:
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.
And, oh! permit the gloom of solemn night,
To sacred thought may forciby invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
THE DEATH OF A GOOD MAN AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE.
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light;
How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides!
How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides.
Oh how divine! to tread the milky way
To the bright palace of the Lord of day;
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew:
Pleas'd to look down, and see the world asleep;
While I long vigils to its Founder keep.
THE DEATH OF A GOOD MAN AN INCENTIVE
TO VIRTUE.
THE chamber where the good man meets his fate,
Is privileg'd beyond the common walk
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe,
Receive the blessing, and adore the chance,
That threw in this Bethesda your disease:
If unrestored by this, despair your cure.
For, here, resistless demonstration dwells;
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Here tired dissimulation drops her mask,
Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!
Here real and apparent are the same.
You see the man: you see his hold on heav'n,
If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound.
Heav'n waits not the last moment; owns her friends
On this side death; and points them out to men;
A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r!
To vice, confusion, and to virtue, peace.
Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,
Virtue alone has majesty in death;
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.
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