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Lo! where she comes! all silent! pensive! slow!
On her dark robe unnumber'd meteors glow!
High on her head a starry crown she wears!
Bright in her hand the lamp of reason bears!
Smiling,-behold!-she points the soul to heav'n,
And bids the weeping sinner be forgiv❜n!

But when thy fancy shifts the solemn scene,
And ruddy morning gilds the cheerful green;
With sudden joy we view the prospect chang'd,
And blushing sweets in beauteous order rang'd,
We see the violets; smell the dewy rose,
And each perfume that from the woodbine flows!
A boundless perspective there greets our eyes;
Rich vales descend, and verdant mountains rise.
The shepherd's cottages, the rural folds;
All that thy art describes, the eye beholds!
Amazing limner! whence this matchless pow'r ?
Thy works a garden!-every word a flow'r!
Thy lovely tints almost the bloom excel,
And none but nature's self can paint so well!
Hail, holy man-henceforth thy work shall stand
(Like some fair column by a master-hand,
Which, whilst it props, adorns the tow'ring pile)
At once to grace and elevate our isle.

Though simple, lofty; though majestic, plain;
Whose bold design the rules of art restrain.
In which the nicest eye sees nothing wrong:
Though polish'd, just; and elegant, though strong.
Sir GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

June 24, 1750.

IN Pleasure's lap the muses long have lain,
And hung, attentive, on her Siren strain:
Still toils the bard beneath some weak design,
And puny thought but halts along the line;
Or tuneful nothings, stealing on the mind,
Melt into air, nor leave a trace behind.
While to the rapt'rous prose, we feel, belong
The strength of wisdom, and the voice of song;
This lifts the torch of sacred truth on high,
And points the captives to their native sky.

How false the joys, which earth or sense inspires,
That clog the soul, and damp her purer fires!
Truths, which thy solemn scenes, my friend, declare
Whose glowing colors paint us as we are.
Yet not morosely stern, nor idly gay,
Dull melancholy reigns, or trifles sway;
Ill would the strains of levity befit,
And sullen gloom, but sadden all thy wit:
Truth, judgment, sense, imagination, join;
And ev'ry muse, and ev'ry grace is thine.
Religion prompting the true end of man,
Conspiring genius executes the plan ;
Strong to convince, and elegant to charm,
Plaintive to melt, or passionate to warm,
Rais'd by degrees, we elevate our aim,
And grow immortal as we catch thy flame;
True piety informs our languid hearts,
And all the vicious, and the vain departs.
So, when foul spreading fogs creep slowly on,
Blot the fair morn, and hide the golden sun;
Ardent he pours the boundless blaze of day,
Rides through the sky, and shines the mist away.
O! had it been the Almighty's gracious will,
That I had shar'd a portion of thy skill;
Had this poor breast receiv'd the heav'nly beam,
Which spreads its lustre through thy various theme;
That speaks deep lessons from the silent tomb,
And crowns thy garden with fresh-springing bloom;
Or piercing through creation's ample whole,
Now soothes the night, or gilds the starry pole;
Or marks how winter calls her howling train,
Her snows and storms, that desolate the plain;
With thee the muse should trace the pleasing road,
That leads from nature up to nature's GoD;
Humbly to learn, and, as she knows thee more,
Glad to obey, and happy to adore.

Northampton, Aug. 25, 1750.

PETER WHALEY.

The following lines were written on MR. HERVEY'S PIC
TURE, by the REV. MR. NIXON, Rector of Cold-
Higham in Northampton.

WILLIAMS, 'tis yours to bid the canvass wear,
By art illusive, HERVEY'S form and air,
Oh! with like happy labour could I trace
Each virtue, each exalted Christian grace,
Each heav'nly gift with which his soul was blest,
And fix the bright assemblage in my breast;
Then how transcendant far would be my plan:
You paint his mimic shade. I'd live the man.

TO

MISS RT

MADAM,

THESE reflections, the ONE on the deepest, the OTHER on the gayest scenes of nature, when they proceeded privately from the pen, were addressed to a lady of the most valuable endowments; who crowned all her other endearing qualities by a fervent love of Christ, and an exemplary conformity to his divine pattern. She alas! lives no longer on earth; unless it be in the honors of a distinguished character, and in the bleeding remembrance of her acquaintance.

It is impossible, madam, to wish you a richer blessing, or a more substantial happiness than that the same spirit of unfeigned faith, the same course of undefiled religion, which have enabled her to triumph over death, may both animate and adorn your life. And you will permit me to declare, that my chief inducement in requesting your acceptance of the following Meditations, now they make a public appearance from the press, is that they are designed to cultivate the same sacred principle, and to promote the same excellent practice.

Long, madam, may you bloom in all the vivacity and amiableness of youth, like the charming subject of one of these Contemplations. But at the same time remember, that with regard to such inferior accomplishments, you must one day fade (may it prove some very remote period!) like the mournful objects of the other. This consideration will prompt you to go on, as you have begun, in adding the meekness of wisdom, and all the beauties of holiness to the grace of an engaging person, and the refinements of a polite

education.

And might-O! might the ensuing hints furnish you with the least assistance in prosecuting so desirable an end; might

they contribute, in any degree to establish your faith, or elevate your devotion; they would, then, administer to the author such a satisfaction as applause cannot give, nor censure take away: a satisfaction, which I should be able to enjoy, even in those awful moments, when all that captivates the eye is sinking in darkness, and every glory of this lower world disappearing for ever.

These wishes, madam, as they are a most agreeable employ of my thought, so they come attended with this additional circumstance of pleasure, that they are also the sincerest expressions of that very great esteem with which I an, MADAM,

Your most obedient,

Most humble servant,

Weston-Favel, near

Northampton,
May 20, 1746.

JAMES HERVEY.

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