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Earth on its firm basis plac'd, t
And with circling waves embrac'd,
All Creating Pow'r confess,

All their mighty Maker bless.

Thou shak'st all nature with thy nod,

Sea, earth, and air, confess thee Gon!..

Yet does thy pow'rful hand sustain

Both earth and heaven, both firm and main.

Scarce can our daring thought arise
To thy pavilion in the skies;
Nor can Plato's self declare

The bliss, the joy, the rapture there.
Barren above thou dost not reign,
But circled with a glorious train,
The sons of GOD, the sons of light,
Ever joying in thy sight:

(For thee their silver harps are strung)

Ever beauteous, ever young.

Angelic forms their voices raise,

And thro' heaven's arch resound thy praise.

The feather'd, souls that swim the air,

And bathe in liquid æther there,
The lark, precenter of their choir,
Leading them higher still and higher,
Listen and learn; th' angelic notes
Repeating in their warbling throats,

And ere to soft repose they go,
Teach them to their lords below:
On the green turf, their mossy nest,
The ev'ning anthem swells their breast..
Thus like thy golden chain from high,
Thy praise unites the earth and sky.

Source of light, thou bid'st the sun
On his burning axle run;

The stars like dust around him fly,
And strew the area of the sky.
He drives so swift his race above,
Mortals can't perceive him move:

So smooth his course, oblique or straight,.
Olympus shakes not with his weight.
And as the queen of solemn night
Fills at his vase the orb of light,
Imparted lustre: thus we see
The solar virtue shines by thee.

Eiresione, we'll no more

Imaginary pow'r adore;

Since oil, and wool, and cheerful wine,
And life-sustaining bread are thine.

Thy herbage, O great Pan, sustains
The flocks that graze our Attic plains:
The olive, with fresh verdure crown'd,
Rises pregnant from the ground;

At thy command it shoots and springs,
And a thousand blessings brings.
Minerva, only is thy mind,

Wisdom, and bounty to mankind.
The fragrant thyme, the bloomy rose,
Herb, and flow'r, and shrub that grows
On Thessalian Tempè's plain,
Or where the rich Sabeans reign,
That treat the taste, or smell, or sight,
For food, for med'cine, or delight;
Planted by thy parent care,
Spring, and smile, and flourish there.

O ye nurses of soft dreams, Reedy brooks, and winding streams, Or murm'ring o'er the pebbles sheen, Or sliding through the meadows green, Or where through matted sedge you creep, Travelling to your parent deep;

Sound his praise, by whom ye rose,

That sea, which neither ebbs nor flows.

O ye immortal woods and


Which th' enamour'd student loves;
Beneath whose venerable shade,

For thought and friendly converse made
Fam'd Hecadem, old hero, lies

Whose shrine is shaded from the skies

And through the gloom of silent night
Projects from far its trembling light.
You, whose roots descend as low,
As high in air your branches grow;
Your leafy arms to heaven extend,
Ben your heads, in homage bend:
Cedars, and pines, that wave above,
And the oak belov'd of Jove.

Omen, monster, prodigy,
Or nothing are, or Jove from thee!
Whether various nature play,
Or re-invers'd thy will obey,
And to rebel man declare

Famine, plague, or wasteful war.
Laugh, ye profane, who dare despise
The threat'ning vengeance of the skies,
Whilst the pious, on his guard,

Undismay'd is still prepar'd:

Life or death, his mind's at rest,

Since what thou send'st must needs be best.

No evil can from thee proceed:

'Tis only suffer'd, not decreed;

Darkness is not from the sun,

Nor mount the shades till he is gone:

Then does night obscene arise

From Erebus, and fill the skies;

Fantastic forms the air invade,
Daughters of nothing and of shade.

Can we forget thy guardian care,
Slow to punish, prone to spare!

Thou break'st the haughty Persian's pride,
That dar'd old ocean's power deride;
Their shipwrecks strew'd the Eubean wave,
At Marathon they found a grave.

O ye blest Greeks, who there expir'd,
For Greece with pious ardour fir'd,
What shrines or altars shall we raise
To secure your endless praise?
Or need we monuments supply,
To rescue what can never die!

And yet a greater hero far,
(Unless great Socrates could err)
Shall rise to bless some future day,
And teach to live, and teach to pray.
Come, Unknown Instructor, come!
Our leaping hearts shall make thee room:
Thou with Jove our vows shalt share;
Of Jove and Thee we are the care.

O Father, King, whose heavenly face. Shines serene on all thy race,

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