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On the light rills, that warble, as the wind, Gales hollow-roaring, hoarse resounding woods, Rude hanging rocks, dread shades, and dashing
floods, Exalt, and soothe, and harmonize the mind. Then every rude emotion sinks to rest,
In gentler flow the tides of passion roll,
And philosophic transports swell the soul.
Thence her rich store of form and colour brings, With curious art combined a thousand ways,
And paints her beauteous images of things.
Now wantons wild in aromatic groves,
Pensive and listening to the sighs of woe; Now sits sublime on Alpine heights enthroned, Mid the red blaze of lightnings flashing round,
And hears redoubled thunders roll below.
Now Horror's shade she seeks, and central cave,
Her ghastly visaged ghosts and floods of fire; Now joys in empyrean light to lave,
And catch new rapture from the Seraph's lyre. Then welcome, Night! thou awful pleasing fair!
While the moon seems along the clouds to sail, Which round her throne like fleecy flakes appear,
And now half hide her radiance, now reveal.
Pride wants the Sun her plumage to display ;
Draws her rich splendours, or imbibes her joy; Reason's clear beam and Virtue's flame divine Shall with their own eternal glories shine,
When worlds and suns in endless darkness die. And thou, Great Father! guard my sleeping hours,
Bid the wild war of striving passions cease, Compose in pleasing harmony my powers,
And o'er my throbbing bosom breathe thy peace. Thrice-happy souls who thy protection share !
Virtue in thy parental arms at rest Securely lies, as stranger yet to fear
The suckling slumbers on its mother's breast.
Spirits, that hurl the thunders down the sky,
And shake o'er trembling Guilt the fiery rod,
REV. H. MOORE,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM.
LET others hail the rising sun,
Which sets in endless night;
With calm but cheerful light.
From real grief they flow;
And join a nation's woe.
All their lost friend deplore :
That Pelham is no more.
If thus each Briton is alarm'd
What griefs their breasts must rend,
The husband, father, friend!
What! mute, ye bards ?—no mournful verse,
To crown the good and just?
No laurels from the dust.
When power departed with his breath,
Such insects swarm at noon.
One ministerial boon.
Hath some peculiar strange offence
To check the nation's pride?
Vengeance can sleep no more ;
And quits the’ unhallow'd shore.
A double stroke was given;
And Pelham fled to heaven!
Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
The heavenly guards withdrew.
Stretch out thy healing hand ;
And saved a sinking land. Search, with thy more than mortal eye, The breasts of all thy friends: descry • The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of the late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.
What there has got possession.
For principle profession.
Protect our parent king :
And crush them ere they sting.
If such his trust and honours share,
Each venom'd heart disclose;
He cannot fear his foes.
Whoe'er shall at the helm preside,
To stem the troubled wave;
No selfish views to' oppress mankind,
To purchase fame with blood;
Is only to be good.