MORNING. HAD I a harp by angels strung, But though no saint or seraph's fire To animate my lays ; Do thou from thine ethereal sphere, In tender mercy deign to hear, And pardon while I praise. "Is there a God?" the sceptic criesWho form'd the earth, who built the skies? By whose command divine Do yonder circling planets run, And that celestial orb, the sun, In all its glory shine? Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r Upholds thee in affliction's hour, Nor leaves thy soul to weep? Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will, Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields Who gives the moon her silver rays, Who, when the battle's rage begins, Directs the carnage from on high, Who, when upon the bed of death Whispers, in soothing sounds of love, He shall enjoy, in realms above, "Tis God! whose throne is fix'd on high, Lord of the universe, and sky, Whom earth and heav'n revere; Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour, Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r, And crowns the varied year! Eternal truths though myst'ry veil, Earth shall to her foundations shake, A pilgrim in this world of strife, Thy faith, my staff-thy breath, my life,— Thy hope, and promise giv'n,— The pow'r of sin and death destroy, Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy; And earth, a step to heav'n. THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. THERE is a debt we all must pay, Some ask a year, a month, an hour; Nor houses, lands, nor gold have I, Let Fortune, jade! say why, and wherefore; Then what have I to do but die? With nothing left on earth to care for. Life is a feast-a strange one too! To fare but poorly I've been able; Yet seen enough to pall my view— So let me now retire from table. The careless world looks down with scorn On intellectual fires; And he indeed is most forlorn Whom genius most inspires. Yet mourn not vainly, suff'ring man, At this, thy fate o'ercast; Life, good or ill, is but a span, Which cannot always last. And fondly hope, amidst thy woe, That those whom sorrow marks below, |