The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flow'r, Or what he views of beautiful or grand In nature, from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God! His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd, Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene Is dreary, so with him all seasons please.
He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; and, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not her's, for he has prov'd them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen, And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censur'd oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer-None. His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks,
Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best,
If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an incumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none.
His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive
Some taste of comfort in a world of wo, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast what few that win it can― That, if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
THE groans of nature in this nether world,
Which Heav'n has heard for ages, have an end. Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath, comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Fulfill'd their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world; and what remains Of this tempestuous state of human things, Is merely as the working of a sea
Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest:
For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds The dust that waits upon his sultry march, When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend, Propitious, in his chariot pav'd with love; And what his storms have blasted and defac'd For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair..
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