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Let the fea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.

Psal. xcviii.


WEET rural scene !

Of flocks and green!
At careless ease my limbs are spread ;

All nature still,

But yonder rill;
And liftning pines nod o'er my head :


In prospect wide,

The boundless tide!
Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;

Without a breeze,

The curling seas
Dance on, in measure to the shore.


Who sings the fource

Of wealth and force ?
Vaft field of commerce, and big war,

Where wonders dwell!

Where terrors swell!
And Neptune thunders from his car ?


Where? Where are they,

Whom Pæ'an's ray
Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?

What! none aspire ?

I snatch the lyre,
And plunge into the foaming wave.


The wave resounds!

The rock rebounds! The Nereids to my foug reply!

I lead the choir,

And they conspire,
With voice and shell, to lift it high.


They spread in air

Their bosoms fair,
Their verdant tresses pour behind:

The billows beat

With nimble feet,
With notes triumphant swell the wind.

VII. Who

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When tempests ceafe,

And, hush'd in peace,
The flatten'd furges smoothly spread,

Deep filence keep,

And seem to sleep Recumbent on their oozy bed ;


With what a trance,

The level glance, Unbroken, shoots along the feas !

Which tempt from shore

The painted oar;
And every canvas courts the breeze!


When rushes forth

The frowning north
On black’ning billows, with what dread

My shuddering soul

Beholds them roll,
And hears their roarings o'er my head !


With terror, mark

Yon flying bark!
Now center-deep descend the brave;

Now, toss?d on high,

It takes the sky,
A feather on the tow'ring wave!

XV. Now

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