Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time refound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
It fends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus fpeaking from among the bones.
When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a King of fears am I!

They view me like the last of things;

They make, and then they draw, my strings.
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pafs to God:
A port of calms, a state to cafe
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.
Why then thy flowing fable ftoles,
Deep pendant cyprefs, mourning poles,
Loofe fcarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearfes, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'fcutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the foul, these forms of woe;
As men who long in prifon dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their fuffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering fun:

Such

Such joy, though far tranfcending fenfe,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they waste :
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad fcene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.

L

OVELY, lafting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the fky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head;
What happy region dost thou please
To make the feat of calms and ease!
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Encreasing avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold infhrin'd.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way,
Through rocks amidst the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.

The

The filent heart, which grief affails,

Treads foft and lonefome o'er the vales,
Sees daifies open, rivers run,

And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That Solitude 's the nurfe of woe.
No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground:
Or in a foul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All Nature in its forms below;
The reft it feeks, in feeking dies,
And doubts at last for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lafting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bleft,
And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I stood,

I fung my wishes to the wood,

And, loft in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It feem'd as all the quiet place
Confefs'd the prefence of his grace.
When thus the fpoke-Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions all be still,
Know God-and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then every grace fhall prove its guest,

And I'll be there to crown the rest.

Oh!

Oh! by yonder moffy feat,

In my

hours of fweet retreat;

Might I thus my foul employ,

With fenfe of gratitude and joy:
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vifion, praise, and prayer;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and blefs'd with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my fong:
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great Source of Nature, fing.
The fun that walks his airy way,

To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I fee,

Should be fung, and sung by me :
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go fearch among your idle dreams,
Your bufy or your vain extreams;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

THE

THE HERMIT,

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,

From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The mofs his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life fo facred, fuch ferene repofe,

Seam'd heaven itself, till one fuggeftion rofe;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This fprung fome doubt of Providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain profpect boast,
And all the tenour of his foul is loft:
So when a smooth expanfe receives impreft
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with anfwering colours glow :
But if a ftone the gentle fea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every fide,

And glimmering fragments of a broken fun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick diforder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by fight,
To find if books, or fwains, report it right,
(For yet by fwains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the Pilgrim-staff he bore,

And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ;