Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres;

Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring;

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;

Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests forth;

And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,

With transport touches all the springs

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Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,

In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him;

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,

As home he goes beneath the joyous

moon.

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,

Ye constellations, while your angels strike,

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round,

On Nature write with every beam his praise.

The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world;

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.

Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks,

Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,

Ye valleys, raise; for the great Shepherd reigns,

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will

JOHN DYER.

[1700-1758.]

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple eve, dost lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,-
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's
flood,

Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,

And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,