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Or pining Love, Mall waste their youth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Sorrow's piercing dart. AMBITION this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
And grinning INFAMY.
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen REMORSE with blood defil'd, And, moody MADNESS, laughing wild,
Amid leverest woe.
A grisly troop, are seen,
More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins; That ev'ry lab'ring finew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage :
And flow-consuming age.
Condemn’d alike to groan;
Th' unseeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate ? Since sorrow never comes too late,
And HAPPINESS too swiftly flies : Thought would destroy their paradise. No mote:-where IGNORANCE is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wife.
ADAM'S MORNING HYMN. THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame: Thus wond'rous fair! thyself how wond'rous then? Unspeakable, who fitt'st'above these heav'ns, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine. Speak ye, who best can tell, ye fons of light, ANGELS! for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heav'n, On earth, join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him laft, him midst, aud without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and foul, Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high-noon haft gain'd, and when thou
fall'st. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies; And ye five other wand'ring fires that move In mystic dance, not without long, resound His praise, who out of darkness callid up light; Air, and ye ELEMENTS, the eldest birth Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run, Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix, And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great maker still new praise. Ye Mists and EXHALATIONs that now rise Froin hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fieecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great author rise! Whether to deck with clouds th’ uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling ihow’rs,
Rising or falling still advance his praise !
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresa Made,
Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine :
And told them it was pleafant, neat, and fine : Taste it, quoth one: he did;-oh, fie! quoth he, ** This wine was good; now't turns too near the lee.” Another fipp'd, to give the wine its due,
And said unto the rest, “it drank too flat; The third, faid "it
was old;" the fourth, “too new;? Nay, faid the fifth, "the sharpness likes me not." Thus, gentlemen, you fee, how in one hour,
The wine was new, old, flat, sharp, sweet, and four, These poems, to this wine allude we may:
Which fome will think too trivial, fome too grave; You, as our guests, wę entertain: and say,
You're kindly welcome to the best we have, Excufe us, then; good wine may be disgrac'd, When ev'ry mouth hath got a diff'rent taste.