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Till mild Religion, from above,

Descends, a sweet engaging form, The messenger of holy love,

The bow of promise in a storm!

Then guilty passions wing their flight,

Sorrow, remorse, affliction cease, Religion's yoke is soft and light,

And all her paths are paths of peace.

Ambition, pride, revenge, depart,

And folly flies her chastening rod; She makes the humble contrite heart

A temple of the living God.

Beyond the narrow vale of time,

Where bright celestial ages roll, To scenes eternal, scenes sublime,

She points the way, and leads the soul. At her approach the Grave appears

The gate of Paradise restored ;
Her voice the watching Cherub hears,

And drops his double flaming sword.

Baptized with her renewing fire,

May we the crown of glory gain; Rise when the Hosts of Heaven expire,

And reign with God, for ever reign.



Hail Charity ! propitious pow'r,

'Tis thine to ease the aching breast, To soothe the sad distressful hour,

And shed the balm of downy rest.

O! hear the suff'ring mourner's prayer,

His tender plaint-his piteous cry, With hand indulgent wipe the tear,

From sad affliction's gushing eye.

Kind Charity ! celestial guest,

Swift from the azure sky descend, Diffuse thy spirit through each breast,

And all thy genial influence lend.



Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long expected flowers,

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the Cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring :

While, wisp'ring pleasure as they fly,

Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner, shade;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the muse shall sit and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the Crowd,

How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great !

Still is the toiling hand of care:

The panting herds repose :
Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows !
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon :

Some lightly o'er the current skim,

Some show their gaily gilded trim Quick-glancirg to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man;
And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But futter through life's little day,

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