PARS SECUNDA.

With awe 1 kneel

Arembling before the footstool of thy state.
My God, my Father!-I will sing to thee
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,

Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades
The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre

And give its wild strings to the desert gale.

TO THE READER.

THAT union of the soul and body here,

Which heaven has ordered, calls for several treatment

To suit its several parts-Our outward man

Asks cheerful exercise; our inward man

Must have his pauses too from serious thought,

And gathers vigour for his loftier flights
By earthly relaxation-Yet, my friend,

We must not hover here, nor skim the turf
Uninterruptedly, but imp our wings

For rocks aerial and for upper day.