In adoration join; and ardent, raise

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes :

O, talk of Him in solitary glooms!

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,

Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills,
And let me catch it as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret world of wonders in thyself,

Sound His stupendous praise; whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints
Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day, best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,

From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam His praise.
The thunder rolls; be hushed the prostrate world,
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound; the broad, responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns,
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.

Ye woodlands all, awake; a boundless song
Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,

Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm
The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,
Crown the great hymn! In swarming cities vast,
Assembled men to the deep organ join

The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling base;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardor, rise to heaven.

Or, if

you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll!
For me, when I forget the darling theme,
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east,

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant, barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song,-where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles, - 'tis nought to me;
Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;

And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go

Where Universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,

And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Hin, in light ineffable!

Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.

THOMSON.

43. Picture of the Miseries of War.

Ir is wonderful with what coolness and indifference the greater part of mankind see war commenced. Those that hear of it at a distance, or read of it in books, but have never presented its evils to their minds, consider it as little more than a splendid game, a proclamation, an army, a battle, and a triumph. Some, indeed, must perish in the successful field; but they die upon the bed of honor, resign their lives amidst the joys of conquest, and, filled with their country's glory, smile in death!

The life of a modern soldier is ill represented by heroic fiction. War has means of destruction more formidable than the cannon and the sword. Of the thousands and ten thousands that perished in the late contests with France and Spain, a very small part ever felt the stroke of an enemy; the rest languished in tents and ships, amidst damps and putrefaction; pale, torpid, spiritless, and helpless; gasping and groaning, unpitied among men, made obdurate by long continuance of hopeless misery; and were at last whelmed in pits, or flung into the ocean, without notice and without remembrance. By incommodious encampments and unwholesome stations, where courage is useless and enterprise impracticable, fleets are silently dispeopled, and armies sluggishly melted away.

Formidable, adapted to excite fear or apprehension: able, 63.

Thus is a people gradually exhausted, for the most part, with little effect. The wars of civilized nations make very slow changes in the system of empire. The public perceives scarcely any alteration but an increase of debt; and the few individuals who are benefited are not supposed to have the clearest right to their advantages. If he that shared the danger enjoyed the profit, and, after bleeding in the battle, grew rich by the victory, he might show his gains without envy. But, at the conclusion of a ten years' war, how are we recompensed for the death of multitudes and the expense of millions, but by contemplating the sudden glories of paymasters and agents, contractors and commissaries, whose equipages shine like meteors, and whose palaces rise like exhalations?

44. Thoughts on Time.

THE bell strikes one.

But from its loss;

Is wise in man.

We take no note of time

to give it then a tongue As if an angel spoke,

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,

It is the knell of my departed hours.

Where are they? with the years beyond the flood!

It is the signal that demands despatch;

How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down on what? a fathomless abyss!

A dread eternity! how surely mine!

And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

Contractor, one who agrees with government to furnish provisions, or other supplies, or to perform any work or service for the public, at a certain price or rate. - - Commissary, in a military sense, one who has the charge of furnishing provisions, clothing, &c., for an army.

O time! than gold more sacred; more a load
Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squandered, wisdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor;
Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
No moment but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth? ask death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big

With holy hope of nobler life to come;

Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark
Of men and angels, virtue more divine.

On all-important time, through every age,

Though much and warm the wise have urged, the

man

Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour.

"I've lost a day"— the prince who nobly cried

Had been an emperor without his crown.

Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race;
He spoke as if deputed by mankind.

So should all speak; so reason speaks in all
From the soft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,

For rescue from the blessings we possess?

Ah, how unjust to nature and himself
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
We censure nature for a span too short;
That span too short we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,

To lash the lingering moments into speed,

And whirl us happy riddance. from ourselves.