The diftant kingdoms fhall thy wonders hear,
The fierce Philistines fhall confess their fear;
Thy fame fhall over Edom's princes spread,
And Moab's kings, the univerfal dread ;
While the vast scenes of miracles impart
A thrilling horror to the braveft heart.

As through the world the gathering terror runs,
Canaan fhall shrink, and tremble for his fons.
Till thou haft Jacob from his bondage brought,
At fuch a vast expence of wonders bought,
To Canaan's promis'd realms and blest abodes,
Led through the dark receffes of the floods.
Crown'd with their tribes shall proud Moriah rise,
And rear his fummit nearer to the skies.

Through ages, Lord, shall stretch thy boundless power,
Thy throne shall stand when Time shall be no more:
For Pharaoh's steeds, and cars, and warlike train,
Leap'd in, and boldly rang'd the fandy plain..
While in the dreadful road, and defart way,

The fhining crowds of gafping fishes lay :
Till, all around with liquid toils befet,

The Lord swept o'er their heads the watery net.
He freed the ocean from his fecret chain,

And on each hand discharg'd the thundering main..
The loosen'd billows burst from every fide,

And whelm the war and warriors in the tide;
But on each hand the folid billows stood,
Like lofty mounds to check the raging flood;
Till the bleft race to promis'd Canaan past
O'er the dry path, and trod the watery waste.

The

The THIRD ODE of the Second Book of HORACE, Paraphrased.

LET the brave youth be train'd, the ftings

Of poverty to bear,

And in the school of want be taught

The exercise of war.

Let him be practis'd in his bloom,
To liften to alarms,

And learn proud Parthia to fubdue
With unrefifted arms.

The hoftile tyrant's beauteous bride,
Diftracted with despair,

Beholds him pouring to the fight,
And thundering through the war.

As from the battlements fhe views
The flaughter of his sword,
Thus shall the fair exprefs her grief,
And terrors for her Lord:

Look down, ye gracious powers, from heaven,

Nor let my confort go,

Rude in the arts of war, to fight

This formidable foe.

Oh! not with half that dreadful rage

The royal favage flies,

When, at the flighteft touch, he fprings

And darts upon his prize.

How fair, how comely are our wounds,

In cur dear country's caufe!
What fame attends the glorious fate,
That props our dying laws!

For death's cold hand arrefts the fears
That haunt the coward's mind;
Swift the pursues the flying wretch,
And wounds him from behind.

Bravely regardless of difgrace,
Bold virtue ftands alone,
With pure unfully'd glory fhines,
And honours ftill her own.

From the dark grave, and filent duft,

She bids her fons arife,

And to the radiant train unfolds

The portals of the skies.

Now, with triumphant wings, fhe foars,

Above the realms of day,

Spurns the dull earth, and groveling crowd,

And towers th' ethereal way.

With her has filence a reward,
Within the blefs'd abodes,

That holy filence which conceals

The fecrets of the Gods.

But with a wretch I would not live,

By facrilege prophan'd,

Nor lodge beneath one roof, nor launch

One veffel from the land:

For,

For, blended with the bad, the good

The common ftroke have felt,

And heaven's dire vengeance ftruck alike

At innocence and guilt.

The wrath divine pursues the wretch,

At prefent lame, and flow, But yet, though tardy to advance,

She gives the furer blow.

The THIRD ODE of the Fourth Book of
HORACE, Paraphrafed.

WHOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye

With friendly aspect views,

Shall from his cradle rife renown'd,

And facred to the Mufe.

Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame
And deathlefs triumphs owe;
Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath,
That fhades the champion's brow.
Nor in the wide Elæan plains

Fatigue the courser's speed;

Nor through the glorious cloud of duft,
Provoke the bounding steed.

Nor, as an haughty victor, mount

The Capitolian heights,

And proudly dedicate to Jove

The trophies of his fights.

Because his thundering hand in war
Has check'd the fwelling tide

Of the ftern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.

But by fweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,

And fcorns the laurels of the war,

For thofe that crown the Mufe.

There in the most retir'd retreats,
He fets his charming fong,

To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus ftrung.

Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome,

Among the poet's quire,

Above the reach of envy's hand

I fafely may afpire.

Thou facred Mufe, whofe artful hand

Can teach the bard to fing;

Can animate the golden lyre,

And wake the living string :

Thou, by whose mighty power, may fing,
In unaccustom'd strains,

The filent fishes in the floods,

As on their banks the fwans.

To thee I owe my spreading fame,
That thousands, as they gaze,

Make me their wonder's common theme,

And object of their praise.

If