In every British breast, true glory rise,
As now the warbling lark awakes the morn.
To close, my lord! with that which all should close
And all begin, and strike us every hour,

Though no war wak'd us, no black tempest frown'd.
The morning rises gay; yet gayest morn
Less glorious after night's incumbent shades;
Less glorious far bright nature, rich array'd
With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon,
Than the first feeble dawn of moral day?
Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend,)
Though the sun ripens diamonds for their crowns ;
Sole day worth his regard whom Heaven ordains,
Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date,
From the sun's death, and every planet's fall,
His all-illustrious and eternal year;

Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of

awe

And distance here,) shall rank with common men, Yet own their glory never dawn'd before.

235

RESIGNATION.

IN TWO PARTS.

My soul shall be satisfied even as it were with marrow and fatness, when my mouth praiseth thee with joyful lips. PSALM lxiii. 6.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THIS was not intended for the public; there were many and strong reasons against it, and are so still; but some extracts of it, from the few copies which were given away, being got into the printed papers, it was thought necessary to publish something, lest a copy still more imperfect than this should fall into the press: and it is hoped, that this unwelcome occasion of publication may be some excuse for it.

As for the following stanzas, God Almighty's infinite pow er, and marvellous goodness to man, is dwelt on, as the most just and cogent reason for our cheerful and absolute resignation to his will; nor are any of those topics declined, which have a just tendency to promote that supreme virtue: such as the vanity of this life, the value of the next, the approach of death, &c.

PART I

THE days how few, how short the years

Of man's too rapid race

!

Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,

A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,

That to be born seems little more

Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth

With fears alarm'd; and yet, In life's delusions lull'd asleep, This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline,
And languor in my thoughts;
To soften censure, and abate
Its rigour on my faults

Permit me, madam! ere to you
The promis'd verse I pay,

To touch on felt infirmity,

Sad sister of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born,

Like Noah they behold,

O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, Too many suns have roll’d:

Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd

His second world to see:

My second world, though gay the scene, Can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears
With desolation spread;

Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd,
Whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them died my joys; the grave
Has broken nature's laws;

And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
Its partial cruel jaws ;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
A cloud impairs my sight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,

And trembles as I write.

What shall I write? Thalia, tell;
Say, long abandon'd muse!
What field of fancy shall I range?
What subject shall I choose?

A choice of moment high inspire,
And rescue me from shame,
For doting on thy charms so late,
By grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire,
Which dazzle, or amaze,
Beyond renown'd exploits of war,

Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe
Can best appease our pain ;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
Gay folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support
A calm, unshaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
The brow of the resign'd.

O resignation! yet unsung,
Untouch'd by former strains;
Though claiming every muse's smile,
And every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,

I dedicate my page

To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
Thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are
Of virtue faintly bright,

The glorious consummation, thou!

Which fills her orb with light :