Mysterious round! what skill, what | Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes: O, talk of him in solitary glooms; Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe! And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise; for the great Shepherd reigns, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will And, as each mingling flame increases In one united ardor rise to heaven. The prompting seraph, and the poet's Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, JOHN DYER. [1700-1758.] GRONGAR HILL. - SILENT nymph, with curious eye! Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring autumn Or winter rises in the blackening east, more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Should fate command me to the With my hand beneath my head, Over mead and over wood, About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottos where I lay, Now I gain the mountain's brow; |