To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with fongs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, hin midft and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praife him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou fun, of this great world both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; found his praife
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'ft,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'ft.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without fong, refound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mifts and exhalations that now rife
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the fun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rife,
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rifing or falling still advance his praife.
His praife, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in fign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praife.
Join voices all ye living fouls; ye birds,
That finging up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praife.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my fong, and taught his praise.
Hail univerfal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
Arbusta humilesque myricæ.
YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to figh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
----I have left my dear Phyllis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and defire;
What it is, to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
----I have bade my dear Phyllis fareweł.
Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I figh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus penfively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the fmiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have ftray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to førego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought----but it might not be fo---
'Twas with pain that the faw me depart :
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly difcern;
So fweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that the bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To vifit fome far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft, hope is the relic I bear,
And my folace wherever I go.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a lofs,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beach's more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold! Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
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