Should Fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste as in the city full;

And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.
Where even at last the solemn hours shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go

Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in light ineffable!

Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.

THE END.

THOMSON.

R. E. PEACH, Printer, &, Bridge Street, Bath.