Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,

And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere, that binds thee down :
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes-
Scenes, that our gross ideas grovelling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.
Forgive, immortal shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impressed, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs,
And orphan's tears, embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties, all,

Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to Heaven.
Glad Heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres
With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain that gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her to hymn
Whatever good and excellent she forms.

ON EOLUS'S HARP.

ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your god amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid,
With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died for love, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws ; Or he, the sacred Bard, who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem

raise;

Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined,

For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

HYMN TO GOD'S POWER.

HAIL! Power Divine, who by thy sole command,

From the dark empty space,

Made the broad sea and solid land
Smile with a heavenly grace.

Made the high mountain and firm rock,
Where bleating cattle stray;

And the strong, stately, spreading oak,
That intercepts the day.

The rolling planets thou madest move,

By thy effective will;

And the revolving globes above

Their destined course fulfil.

His mighty power, ye thunders, praise,
As through the heavens ye roll;
And his great name, ye lightnings, blaze,
Unto the distant pole.

Ye seas, in your eternal roar,

His sacred praise proclaim;

While the inactive sluggish shore
Re-echoes to the same.

Ye howling winds, howl out his praise,
And make the forests bow;

While through the air, the earth, and seas,
His solemn praise ye blow.

O yon high harmonious spheres,
Your powerful mover sing;

To him your circling course that steers,
Your tuneful praises bring.

Ungrateful mortals, catch the sound,
And in your numerous lays,
To all the listening world around,
The God of nature praise.

A COMPLAINT ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE.

I LOATHE, O Lord, this life below,

And all its fading, fleeting joys;

'Tis a short space that's filled with woe, Which all our bliss by far outweighs.

When will the everlasting morn

With dawning light the skies adorn?

Fitly this life's compared to night,

When gloomy darkness shades the sky; Just like the morn's our glimmering light, Reflected from the Deity.

When will celestial morn dispel

These dark surrounding shades of hell?

I'm sick of this vexatious state,

Where cares invade my peaceful hours; Strike the last blow, O courteous fate, I'll smiling fall like mowèd flowers;

I'll gladly spurn this clogging clay,
And, sweetly singing, soar away.

What's money but refinèd dust?
What's honour but an empty name?
And what is soft enticing lust,

But a consuming idle flame?

Yea, what is all beneath the sky
But emptiness and vanity?

With thousand ills our life's oppressed,
There's nothing here worth living for;
In the lone grave I long to rest,

And [to] be harassed here no more,
Where joy's fantastic, grief's sincere,
And where there's nought for which I care.

Thy word, O Lord, shall be my guide,
Heaven, where thou dwellest, is my goal;
Through corrupt life grant I may glide
With an untainted upward soul.
Then may this life, this dreary night,
Dispelled be by morning light.

TO THE REVEREND PATRICK MURDOCH,1

RECTOR OF STRADISHALL, IN SUFFOLK.

THUS safely low, my friend, thou canst not fall : Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all;

1 The friend and biographer of Thomson.