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A secret world of wonders in thyself,-
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice
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, the 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 bass,
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour reach 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, may Fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!

Should fate command me to the farthest vergo 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 naught 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 e'en 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 smiles not 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 him, in Light Ineffable!

Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise.

ON SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.

BY T. WARTON.

FROM beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,

To my low cot, from ivory beds of state,
Pleased I return, unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells;
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers
And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

A MATIN.

BY BOWRING.

WHEN the moon peeps over the mountain's height,
And the latest star has left the sky,

And the dews disperse at the glance of light,
And the earth puts on her robes of joy,
And the flowers look out, and the woods are gay
With birds and breezes, O! 'tis meet

To join the universal lay,

And nature's chorus to repeat;

To lead the aspiring soul to Him,

Whose is the darkness, whose the day

Who kindled first the sunny beam;

Poured forth the wandering milky way;
Filled all heaven's lamps with ether, spread
The canopy above-whose hand

The valleys and the mountains weighed-
Fathomed the ocean-reared the land,

And crowded all with life and bliss:
See life and bliss around us glowing,
Wherever space or being is,

The cup of joy is full and flowing.

Yes! nature is a splendid show,

Where an attentive mind may hear Music in all the winds that blowAnd see a silent worshipper

In every flower, on every tree,
In every vale, on every hill-
Perceive a choir of melody

In waving grass or whispering rill;
And catch a soft but solemn sound

Of worship from the smallest fly, The cricket chirping on the ground,

The trembling leaf that hangs on high.

Proud, scornful man! thy soaring wing
Would hurry towards infinity;
And yet the vilest, meanest thing
Is too sublime, too deep for thee;

In all thy vain imagining

Lost in the smallest speck we see.

It must be so-for He, even He

Who worlds created, formed the worm

He pours the dew, who filled the sea

Breathes from the flower, who rules the storm. Him we may worship-not conceive;

See not and hear not-but adore :

Bow in the dust-obey-believe

Utter his name-and know no more.

His throne is o'er the highest star

That wanders heaven's blue vaults along;
He drives, unseen, His glorious car
A million viewless worlds among.
A thousand-ay! ten thousand suns
Are darkness in His piercing eye!

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