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Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glɔrious suff' rer3 litile praise. *

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd,
Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say—“My Father made them all!'.
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of int’rest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted

mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love, That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man? Yes--ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,

* See Hume

A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd
Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong,
Appropriates nature as his Father's work,
And has a richer use of yours than you.
He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth
Of no mean city ; plann'd or ere the hills
Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea,
With all his roaring multitude of waves.
His freedom is the same in ev'ry state;
And no condition of this changeful life,
So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day
Brings its own evil with it, makes it less :
For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain,
Nor penury, can cripple or confine.
No nook so narrow, but he spreads them there
With ease, and is at large. Th' oppressor holds
His body bound; but knows not what a range
His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ;
And that to bind him is a vain attempt,
Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells,
Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st

IIis works. Admitted once to his embrace,
Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before.
Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,
Made pure, shall relish with divine delight,
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought
Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone,
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb
[t yields them: or, recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread
Beneath, begond, and stre:ching far away

From inland regions to the distant main.
Man views it, and admires ; but rests coatent
With what he views. The landscape has his

But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd
The Paradise he sees, he finds it euch,
And such well pleas'd to find it, asks no more.
Not so the mind that has been touch'd from

Heav'n, And in the school of sacred wisdon taught To read His wonders, in whose thought the

world, Fair as it is, existed ere it was. Nor for its own sake merely, but for his Much more who fashion’d it, he gives it praise ; Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, To earth's acknowledg'd sov’reign, finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him. The soul that sees him, or receives sublim'd New faculties, or learns at least t'employ More worthily the powers she own'd before, Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds Much conversant with Heaven, she often holde With those fair ministers of light to man, That fill the skies nightly with sile it pomp.

Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were

they With which Heaven rang, when every star, in

haste To gratulate the new-created earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy.--"Tell me, ye shining hosts, That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man, And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race Favour'd as ours: transgressors from the womb And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, And to possess a brighter Heaven than yours ? As one, who, long detain’d on foreign shores, Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd

rocks, From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy toward the happy land; So I with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 'That show like beacons in the blue abyss, Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires That give assurance of their own success, And that, infus'd from Heaven, must thither

tend.” So reads lie Nature, whom the lamp of trutb

Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word:
Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost,
With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt,
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built
With means that wear not, till by thee employ’d,
Worlds that had never been, hadst thou in

Been less, or less benevolent than strong.
They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r
And goodness infinite, but sneak in ears
That hear not, or receive not weir report
In vain thy creatures testify of thee,
Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs indeed
A eaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine,
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,
And with the boon gives talents for its use.
Till thou art heard, imaginations vain
Possess the heart, and fables false as hell:
Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death
The uninform’d and heedless souls of men.
We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as

blind, The glory of thy work; which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st: Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r (If pow'r she be, that works but to confound! To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Instriction, and inventing to ourselves

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