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His praise in softer notes declare,
And breathe it to the soul.
To him, ye graceful cedars, bow;
Your great Creator own;
And trembled at his frown.
Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale,
In mutual concourse rise ;
In incense to the skies.
Wake, all ye mountain tribes, and sing,
Harmonious anthems raise
And tun'd your voice to praise.
Let man, by nobler passions sway'd,
In heav'nly praise employ;
The general burst of joy.
Ye whom the charms of grandeur please,
Fall prostrate at his throne :
Ye princes, rulers, all adore ;
An image of his own.
Ye fair, by nature form'd to move,
With youth's enliv'ning fire :
And ask an angel's lyre.
THE DOOM OF
THE VAIN BOASTER.
Perch'd on a rock's ethereal brow,
An Eagle with imperial pride,
Surveyed the expansive plain below,
And, peering down the rugged side,
Exultingly the distance eyed Which bore him from the vulgar crowd;
And thus, (the words by verse supplied) Soliloquising, spoke aloud :
“Behold where yonder grovelling crew,
“ Turmoiling in the rounds of care, “ In widely-gazing wonder view
My lone retreat thus high in air,
“ And vainly wish with me to share « The ambient regions of the sky;
« With me, the wrath of heaven to dare ; « With me, the winds and storms defy.
« With me they cannot even gaze
“ Upon the glorious noon-day sun; “Which checks by his all-powerful blaze “ The weak attempt ere well begun ;
Experience-taught, they rather shun “ Than court his soul-reviving beam;
“ Whilst I, enraptured, thither run, “ And plume my pinions 'midst its stream.
« Creation's lord, high-vaunting man,
“ With all the beasts of work or chase, • Moving in so confined a space I sure may call a reptile race:
“ And even the feathered tribes give place “ To me, the sovereign of the sky;
“ Emulous in vain they people space “ And but through midway regions fly.