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Old Boreas with his freezing pow'rs
Turns the earth iron, makes the ocean glass,
Arrests the dancing rivulets as they pass,

And chains them moveless to their shores;
The grazing ox lows to the gelid skies,
Walks o’er the marble meads with withering eyes,
Walks o'er the solid lakes, snuffs up the wind, and

dies.

Fly to the polar world, my song,
And mourn the pilgrims there, (a wretched throng!)

Seiz'd and bound in rigid chains,
A troop of statues on the Russian plains,
And life stands frozen in the purple veins.

Atheist, forbear! no more blaspheme :
God has a thousand terrors in his name,

A thousand armies at command,

Waiting the signal of his hand,
And magazines of frost, and magazines of flame.

Dress thee in steel to meet his wrath ;

His sharp artillery from the north [frame. Shall pierce thee to the soul, and shake thy mortal

Sublime on Winter's rugged wings

He rides in arms along the sky,
And scatters fate on swains and kings ;

And flocks and herds, and nations die ;

While impious lips, profanely bold,
Grow pale; and, quivering at his dreadful cold,

Give their own blasphemies the lie.

The mischiefs that infest the earth,
When the hot dog-star fires the realms on high,

Drought and disease, and cruel dearth,
Are but the flashes of a wrathful eye

From the incens'd Divinity.

In vain our parching palates thirst,
For vital food in vain we cry,

And pant for vital breath ;
The verdant fields are burnt to dust,
The sun has drunk the channels dry,

And all the air is death :
Ye scourges of our Maker's rod,
'Tis at his dread command, at his imperial nod,

You deal your various plagues abroad.

Hail? whirlwinds, hurricanes, and floods,
That all the leafy standards strip,

And bear down with a mighty sweep
The riches of the fields, and honours of the woods;

Storms, that ravage o’er the deep, And bury millions in the waves;

Earthquakes, that in midnight sleep. Turn cities into heaps, and make our beds our graves;

While you dispense your mortal harms, 'Tis the Creator's voice that sounds your loud alarms, When guilt with louder cries provokes a God to

arms.

O for a message from above

To bear my spirits up!
Some pledge of my Creator's love
To calm my terrors and support my hope?

Let waves and thunders mix and roar,
Be thou my God, and the whole world is mine :

While thou art Sovereign, I'm secure :

1 shall be rich till thou art poor ; For all I fear, and all I wish, Heaven, earth, and

hell, are thine.

EARTH AND HEAVEN.

Hast thou not seen, impatient boy,
Hast thou not read the solemn truth,
That grey experience writes for giddy youth

On every mortal joy ;
Pleasure must be dash'd with pain?'
And yet with heedless haste

The thirsty boy repeats the taste ;
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again.
The rills of pleasure never run sincere;

(Earth has no unpolluted spring) From the curs’d soil some dangerous taint they bear; So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting,

In vain we seek a Heaven below the sky;

The world has false, but flattering charms :
Its distant joys show big in our esteem,
But lessen still as they draw near the eye ;
In our embrace the visions die,

And when we grasp the airy forms
We lose the pleasing dream.

Earth with her scenes of gay delight

Is but a landscape rudely drawn,
With glaring colours, and false light;
Distance commends it to the sight,

For fools to gaze upon;
But bring the nauseous daubing nigh,
Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie,
Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.

Look up, my soul, pant tow’rd the eternal hills;

Those heavens are fairer than they seem ; There pleasures, all sincere, glide on in crystal

There not a dreg of guilt defiles, [rills,

Nor grief disturbs the stream. That Canaan knows no noxious thing, No cursed soil, no tainted spring, Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.

FELICITY ABOVE.

No, 'tis in vain too seek for bliss;

For bliss can ne'er be found, Till we arrive where Jesus is,

And tread on heavenly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,

Or round this dusty clod;
Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,

Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis Heaven on earth to taste his love,

To feel his quickening grace; And all the Heaven I hope above,

Is but to see his face.

Why move my years in slow delay?

O God of ages! why?
Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way

To the superior sky.
Vol. XXIII.

E

Dear Sovereign, break these vital strings

That bind me to my clay ; Take me, Uriel, on thy wings,

And stretch and soar away.

SELF-CONSECRATION.

Ir grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore,
That I have liv'd to thee no more,
And wasted half my days ;

My inward powers shall burn and flame

With zeal and passion for thy name, I would not speak, but for my God, nor move, but

to his praise.

What are my eyes, but aids to see
The glories of the Deity

Inscrib'd with beams of light,
On flowers and stars ? Lord, I behold

The shining azure, green and gold; (my sight. But when I try to read thy name, a dimness veils

Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings
Sicilian swains, or Trojan kings,

And drink the music in :
Why should the trumpet's brazen voice,
Or oaten reed, awake my joys,

[begin? And yet my heart so stupid lie, when sacred hymns

Change me, O God; my flesh shall be
An instrument of song to thee,

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