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In whose mysterious form combine

Created glories and divine :
The joy and wonder of the realms above ;
At his command all their wing’d squadrons move,
Burn with his fire, and triumph in his love.

IV.
There fouls releas'd from earth's dark bondage live,
My Reynolds there, with Howe and Boyle are found;
Not time nor nature could their genius bound,

And now they soar, and now they dive
In that unlimitable deep where thought itself is drown'd.

They aid the seraphs while they fing,

God is their unexhausted theme;
Light, life and joy for that iminortal spring
O'erflow the blessed millions with an endless stream.

Amazing state! divine abode!
Where spirits find their heaven while they are lost in God.

V.
Hail, holy souls, no more confin'd

To limbs and bones that clog the mind,
Ye have escap'd the snares, and left thechains behind.

We wretched prisoners here below,

What do we fee, or learn, or know,
But scenes of various folly, guilt and woe?
Life's buzzing sounds and flatt'ring colours play

Round our fond sense, and waste the day,
Enchant the fancy, vex the labouring soul;

Each rising lun, each lightsome how,
Beholds the busy llavery we endure ;
Nor is our freedom full, or contemplation pure,
When night and sacred Glence overspread the pole.

VI.
Reynolds, thou late ascended mind,

Employ'd in various thought and tuneful song,
What happy moment shall my foul unbind,

And bid me join th' harmonious throng?

Oh for a wing to rise to thee!
When shall my eyes those heavenly wonders see?
When shall I taste those conforts with an ear refin'd?

VII.
Roll on apace, ye spheres sublime,
Swift drive thy chariot round, illustrious moon,

Halte,

Haíte, all ye twinkling mcafurers of time,

Ye can't fulfil your course too soon. Kindle, my languid powers, celestial love, Point all my passions to the courts above, Then send the convoy down to guard my last remove.

VIII. Thrice happy world, where gilded toys No more disturb our thoughts, no more pollute our joys!

There light and shade succeed no more by turns, There reigns th' eternal fun with an unclouded ray, There all is calm as night, yet all

. immortal day, And truth for ever shines, and love for ever burns.

A PARAPHRASE on the cxXXVII. PSA'L M..

WH

By the fame.

I.
HEN by the flowing brooks we sat,

The brooks of Babylon the proud;
We thought on Zion's mournful state,
And
wept
her woes, and wail'd aloud.

II. Thoughtless of every chearful air

(For grief had all our harps unstrung)
Our harps, neglected in despair,
And silent, on the willows hung.

III.
Our foes, who made our land their spoil,

Our barbarous lords, with haughty tongues,
Bid us forget our groans a while,
And give a taste of Zion's fongs.

IV.
How shall we sing in heathen lands

Our holy songs to ears profane ?
Lord, shall our lips at their commands
Pronounce thy dreadful Name in vain ?

V.
Forbid it heaven! O vile abuse !

Zion in dust forbids it too:

Shall

Shall hymns inspir'd for sacred ule
Be sung to please a scoffing crew ?

VI.
O let my tongue grow dry, and cleave

Fast to my mouth in silence still;
Let some avenging power bereave

My fingers of their tuneful skill;

VII.

If I thy sacred rites profane,

O Salem, or thy dust despise ; If I indulge one chearful strain, Till I shall see thy towers arise.

VIII.
'Twas Edom bid the conqu’ring foe,

Down with thy tow'rs, and raze thy walls :
Requite her, Lord; but, Babel, know,
Thy guilt for fiercer vengeance calls.

IX.
As thou hast spar'd nor sex nor age,

Deaf to our infant's dying groans,
May some bless'd land, inspir'd with rage;

Dash thy young babes, and tinge the stones.

DAVID's LAMENTATIO N over Saul and Jona

than, 2 Sam. i. 19, &c. By the same.

UNHA

1.
TNHAPPY day! distressing fight!

Ifrael, the land of heaven's delight,
How is thy strength, thy beauty fled !

On the high places of the fight
Behold thy princes fall'n, thy fons of victory dead.

II.
Ne'er be it told in Gath, nor known
Among the streets of Askelon :
How will Philiftia's youth rejoice

And triumph in our shame,

And girls with weak unhallow'd voice Chant the dishonours of the Hebrew name!

III. Mouu.

III.
Mountains of Gilboa, let no dew
Nor fruitful showers descend on you ;:
Curse on your fields thro' all the

year,
No flow'ry blessings there appear,

Nor golden ranks of harvest stand To grace the altar, or to feed the land.

'Twas in those inauspicious fields

Judean heroes lost their shields : 'Twas there (ah base reproach and scandal of the day !)

Thy shield, O Saul, was cast away,
As tho' the prophet's horn had never shed'
Its sacred odours on thy head.

IV.
The sword of Saul had ne'er till now

Awoke to war in vain,
Nor Jonathan withdrawn his bow,

Without an army slain.
Where truth and honour mark'd their way,
Not eagles swifter to their

prey,
Nor lions strong or bold as they.

V.
Graceful in arms and great in war

Were Jonathan and Saul,
Pleasant in life, and manly fair ;.
Nor death divides the royal pair,

And thousands share their fall.
Daughters of Israel, melt your eyes
To fofter tears, and swell your sighs,
Difrob’d, disgrac'd, your monarch lyes
On the bleak mountains, pale and cold ::
He made rich scarlet your array ;
Bright were your looks, your bosoms

gay
With
gems of regal gift, and interwoven-gold.

VI.
How are the princes funk in death!

Fall’n on the shameful ground !
There my own Jonathan refign'd his breath :

On the high places where he stood,

He lost his honours and his blood :,
Oh execrable arm that gave the mortal wound !

My

VII.
My Jonathan, my better part,
My brother, and (that dearer name) my friend,
I feel the mortal wound that reach'd thy heart,
And here

my

comforts end.
How pleasant was thy love to me!

Amazing passion, strong and free!
No dangers cou'd thy steady foul remove :
Not the loft virgin loves to that degree,
Nor man to that degree does the soft virgin love.

To name my joys, awakes my pain ;
The dying friend runs cold thro' every

vein.
My Jonathan, my dying friend,
How thick my woes arise ? where will my forrows end ?

VIII.
Unhappy day! distressing fight!
Ifrael, the land of heaven's

delight,
How are thy princes fall’n, thy fons of victory flain!

The broken bow, the fhiver'd spear,
With all the fully'd pomp war,

In rude confufion spread,
Promiscuous lye among the dead,
A lamentable rout o'er all th' inglorious plain.

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THOUGHTS and MEDITATIONS in a long

Sickness, 1712 and 1713. By the fame.

The Hurry of the Spirits in a Fever and nervous

Disorder.

MY

Y frame of nature is a ruffled sea,

And my disease the tempeft. Nature feels
A strange commotion to her inmost centre;
The throne of reason shakes, Be still, my thoughts ;
« Peace and be still.In vain any reason gives
The peaceful word, my spirit strives in vain
To calm the tumult and command my thoughts.
This flefh, this circling blood, these brutal powers
Made to obey, turn rebels to the mind,
Nor hear its laws. The engine rules the man.

Un

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