As when a felon, whom his country's laws Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears The shameful close of all his misspent years; If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, A tempest usher in the dreaded morn, Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play, The thunder seems to summon him away, The warder at the door his key applies, Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies: If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost, The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, He drops at once his fetters and his fear; A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs The comfort of a few poor added days, Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul Of him whom Hope has with a touch made whole. 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of kings; 'Tis more 'tis God diffused through every part, 'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. O welcome now the sun's once hated light, His noonday beams were never half so bright. Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy; Unconscious nature, all that he surveys, Rocks, groves, and streams must join him in his praise. These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; These move the censure and illiberal grin Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin: But these shall last when night has quench'd the And heaven is all departed as a scroll. [pole, And when, as justice has long since decreed, This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, Then these thy glorious works, and they that 'share That hope which can alone exclude despair, Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, The brightest wonders of an endless day. Happy the bard (if that fair name belong To him that blends no fable with his song) Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, The faithful monitor's and poet's part, Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And while they captivate, inform the mind: Still happier, if he till a thankful soil, And fruit reward his honourable toil : But happier far, who comfort those that wait To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate: Their language simple, as their manners meek, No shining ornaments have they to seek; Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste, In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste; But while they speak the wisdom of the skies, Which art can only darken and disguise, The abundant harvest, recompense divine, Repays their work-the gleaning only mine. 1 Aldive ed. who. CHARITY. Quâ nihil majus meliusve terris Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum HOR. LIB. IV. ODE 2. FAIREST and foremost of the train that wait Or felt but in the soul that Heaven selects; God, working ever on a social plan, By various ties attaches man to man : Differing in language, manners, or in face, Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown, Their prince, as justly seated on his throne Trick'd out of all his royalty by art, That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest heart, For scorning what they taught him to detest. Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid We come with joy from our eternal rest Shook principalities and kingdoms down, |