Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o'er PARAPHRASE Of the 63d chapter of Isaiah to the 6th verse. A PINDARIQUE ODE. Strange scene of glory! am I well awake; It cannot be a dream, bright beams of light No common vision this, I see Some marks of more than human Majesty. Who is this mighty Hero, who? With glories reund his head, and terror in his brow? From Bozrah lo he comes, a scarlet die O'erspreads his cloaths, and does outvie Triumphant and victorious he appears, How strong he treads, how stately does he go! Pompous and solemn is his pace, And full of Majesty, as is his face. Who is this mighty Hero, who?. 'Tis I who to my promise faithful stand, Why wear'st thou then this scarlet die? Why do thy garments look all red Like them that in the wine-fat tread? That vast unwieldly frame, which long did stand Unmov'd, and which no mortal force could e'er command, That ponderous mass I ply'd alone And with me to assist were none; A mighty task it was, worthy the Son of God. Angels stood trembling at the dreadful sight, Concern'd with what success I should go through The work I undertook to do; Inrag'd I put forth all my might And down the engine press'd, the violent force With ornamental drops bedeck'd I stood, The day, the signal day is come The day when death shall have its doom, Be celebrated to posterity: Then shall the Prince of light descend, And rescue mortals from th' infernal fiend, Break through his strongest forts, and all his host subdue. This said, she shut the adamantine volume close, And now in midst of the revolving years, The faithful traveller the sun Has number'd out the days, and the set period run. My angelick guards stood trembling by, In vain too from my Father did I look Amaz'd I was to see How all deserted me. 1 took my fury for my sole support And with my single arm the conquest won. Strain'd to an higher pitch of joy and love, INVITATION OF MERCY. Come! said Jesus' sacred voice, Weary pilgrim, hither come! Thou, who houseless, sole forlorn, Long hast born the proud world's scorn, Long hast roam'd the barren waste Ye who, tost on beds of pain, Seek for ease, but seek in vain : Ye by fiercer anguish torn, In strong remorse for guilt who mours Here repose your heavy care: Sinner, come! for here is found CONTEMPLATION OF THE WORKS OF NATURE. Eternal wisdom! thee we praise, Thee the creation sings; With thy great name, rocks, hills, and seas, How wide thy hand hath spread the sky! How glorious to behold, Ting'd with a blue of heav'nly die, And starr'd with sparkling gold! There thou hast bid the globes of light The paler planet rules the night, The day obeys the sun. |