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The universal prayer,
In ev'ry clime, ador'd,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Who all my sense confin'd
And that myself am blind;
To see the good from ill;
Left free the human will.
Or warns me not to do,
That more than heaven pursue.
Let me not cast a way;
To enjoy is to obey.
Thy goodness let me bound,
When thousand worlds are round.
Presume thy bolts to throw ;
On each I judge thy foe.
Still in the right to stay ;
To find that better way!
Or impious discontent,
Or aught thy goodness lenta
To hide the fault I see ;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Since quicken’d by thy breath :
Thro' this day's life or death!
All else beneath the sun
And let thy will be done.
All nature's incense rise. POPE.
O treach'rous conscience ! while she seems to sleep
On an infant.
Attendant on the spring !
And woods thy welcome sing.
Thy certain voice we hear
Or mark the rolling year ?
I hail the time of flow'rs,
Of birds among the bow'rs.
To pull the flow'rs so gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st the vocal vale, An annual guest, in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Thy sky is ever clear;
No winter in thy year!
We'd make, with social wing,
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock !)
Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly, from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night retire ; And the peeping sun-beam, now
Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, .
Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt ring swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale; Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daisies, on the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done,) Now the busy bee's employ'd,
Sipping dew before the sun.
Trickling through the crevic'd rock,
Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock,
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. Colin's for the promis'd corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious ;-whilst the huntsman's horn,
Coldly sounding, drowns his pipe. Sweet-O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song
Echoes to the rising day.
Fervid on the glittring flood,
Now the noontide radiance glows : Drooping o'er its infant hud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat, Shelter'd by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his grassy seat. Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall, Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abbey wall. Echo, in her airy round,
O’er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs ;
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.