DIVINE GOODNESS. [MRS. BARBAULD] PRAISE to God, immortal praise, For the blessings of the field, Flocks that whiten all the plain; All that Spring, with bounteous hand, These to thee, my God, we owe, Source from whence all blessings flow; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear Should the vine put forth no more, Should thy alter'd hand restrain Yet, to thee my soul should raise A HYMN TO THE SUPREME BEING, [THOMSON.] THESE, as they change, Almighty Father! these, Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, Breathe soft; whose spirit in your freshness breathes: Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine And ye whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound; A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise; whose greater voice Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flow'rs, 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 hush'd 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 Bursts 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. The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 182 sacred grove; Or i: von rather choose the rural shade, And find a fanc in every here 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 Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting heam Fismes on th' 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 Him, in light ineffable! Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise, |