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The shouts of murderers that insult the slain,
The voice of torment, and the shrieks of pain.

I cast my eyes with horror up
To the curs'd mountain's guilty top;
See there! whom hanging in the midst I view!

Ah! how unlike the other two!
I see him high above his foes,
And gently bending to the wood
His head in pity down to those,

Whose guilt conspires to shed his blood.
His wide-extended arms I see,
Transfix'd with nails, and fasten'd to the tree.

Man! senseless man! canst thou look on ?
Nor make thy Saviour's pains thy own.
The rage of all thy pain exert,
Rend thy garments and thy heart:
Beat thy breast, and grovel low,

Beneath the burden of thy wo:
Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,
Breathe gales of sighs, and weep a flood of tears.
Behold thy King with purple cover'd round,

Not in the Tyrian tincture dy'd, Nor dipp'd in poison of Sidonian pride, But in his own rich blood, that streams from every

wound. Dost thou not see the thorny circle red ? The guilty wreath that blushes round his head ? And with what rage the bloody scourge applied, Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his side? At such a sight let all thy anguish rise, Break

the fountains of thy eyes: Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow, Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to wo.

up, break


Weep, from thy soul, till earth be drown'd, Weep, till thy sorrows drench the ground. Canst thou, ungrateful man! bis torment see, Nor drop a tear for him, who pours his blood for thee?




At once to raise our rev'rence and delight,
To elevate the mind and please the sight,
To pour in virtue at th'attentive eye,
And waft the soul on wings of ecstasy;
For this the painter's art with nature vies,
And bids the visionary saint arise :
Who views the sacred forms in thought aspires,
Catches pure zeal, and, as he gazes, fires;
Feels the same ardour to his breast convey'd;
Is what he sees, and emulates the shade.

Thy strokes, great artist, so sublime appear,
They check our pleasure with an awful fear;
While through the mortal line the God you trace,
Author himself and heir of Jesse's race,
In raptures we admire thy bold design,
And, as the subject, own the hand divine.
While through thy work the rising day shall stream,
So long shall last thine honour, praise, and name.
And may thy labours to the Muse impart
Some emanation from her sister art,
To animate the verse, and bid it shine
In colours easy, bright, and strong as thine !

Supine on earth an awful figure lies, While softest slumbers seem to seal his eyes; The hoary sire Heaven's guardian care demands, And at his feet the watchful angel stands. The form august and large, the mien divine, Betray the founder of Messiah's line.* Lo! from his loins the promis'd stem ascend, And high to Heaven its sacred boughs extend: ! Each limb productive of some hero springs, And blooms luxuriant with a race of kings. Th'eternal plant wide spreads its arms around, And with the mighty branch the mystic top is

crown'd. And lo! the glories of th' illustrious line At their first dawn with ripen'd splendours shine, In David all express'd; the good, the great, The king, the hero, and the man complete. Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre, And blends the prophet's with the poet's fire. See! with what art he strikes the vocal strings, The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings! Hark -or our ears delude us—from his tongue Sweet flows, or seems to flow, some heavenly song. Oh could thine art arrest the fleeting sound, And paint the voice in magic numbers bound; Could the warm sun, as erst when Memnon play'd, Wake with his rising beam the vocal shade; Then might he draw th' attentive angels down, Bending to hear the lay, so sweet, so like their On either side the monarch's offspring shine, And some adorn, and some disgrace their line.


* Jesse. 11


Here Ammon glories ; proud incestuous lord !
This hand sustains the robe, and that the sword.
Frowning and fierce, with haughty strides he tow'rs.
And on his horrid brow defiance low'rs.
There Absalom the ravish'd sceptre sways,
And his stolen honour all his shame displays:
The base usurper youth! who joins in one
The rebel subject and th' ungrateful son.

Amid the royal race, see Nathan stand :
Fervent he seems to speak, and lift his hand;
His looks th' emotion of his soul disclose,
And eloquence from ev'ry gesture flows.
Such, and so stern he came, ordain'd to bring
Th' ungrateful mandate to the guilty king:
When, at his dreadful voice, a sudden smart (heart,
Shot through the trembling monarch's conscious
From his own lips condemn'd; severe decree!
Had his God prov'd so stern a judge as be:
But man to frailty is allied by birth;
Consummate purity ne'er dwelt on Earth;
Through all the soul though virtue holds the rein,
Beats at the heart, and springs in ev'ry vein,
Yet ever from the clearest source have ran
Some gross alloy, some tincture of the man.

But who is he deep musing ? in his mind, He seems to weigh in reason's scales mankind; Fix'd contemplation holds his steady eyes I know the sage*, the wisest of the wise. Blest with all man could wish, or prince obtain, Yet his great heart pronounc'd those blessings vain. And lo! bright glittering in his sacred hands, In miniature the glorious temple stands.

* Solomon

Effulgent frame! stupendous to behold!
Gold the strong valves, the roof of burnish'd gold.
The wand'ring ark, in that bright dome enshrin'd,
Spreads the strong light, eternal, unconfin'd,
Above th’ unutterable glory plays,
Presence divine! and the full streaming rays
Pour through reluctant clouds intolerable blaze.

But stern oppression rends Reboam's reign:
See the gay prince, injurious, proud, and vain !
Th’imperial sceptre totters in his hand,
And proud rebellion triumphs in the land,
Curs'd with corruption's ever-fruitful spring,
A beardless senate, and a haughty king.

There Asa, good and great, the sceptre bears,
Justice attends his peace, success his wars ;
While virtue was his sword, and Heav'n his shield,
Without control the warrior swept the field;
Loaded with spoils, triumphant he return'd,
And half her swarthy sons sad Ethiopia mourn'd.
But since thy flagging piety decay'd,
And barter'd God's defence for human aid ;
See their fair laurels wither on thy hrow,
Nor herbs nor healthful arts avail thee now,
Nor is Heav'n chang'd, apostate prince, but thou.
No mean atonement does this lapse require;
But see the son, you must forgive the sire;
He*, the just prince-with ev'ry virtue bless'd
He reign'd, and goodness all the man possess’d.
Around his throne fair happiness and peace
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and smil'd in ev'ry face.
As when along the burning waste he stray'd,
Where no pure streams in bubbling mazes play'd,

* Josaphat.

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