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The Heavens Declare thy Glory. VE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread
Your brilliant places in the sable vault Of night's dominions! planets and central orbs Of other systems, big as the burning sun Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts, Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warped with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator ; Him, who now sublime, Wrapped in the solitary amplitude Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres, Sits on his silent throne and meditates.
Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, “ The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies : the glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene. Th' Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note and cry, “The Lord is great!” Responding to the seraphim. O'er all, From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him.
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works, Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence? Thou canst; For thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour!
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gauds, and honours of the world, appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful
lamp Outwatched the slow-paced night ? Why on the
page, The schoolman’s laboured page, have I employed The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay The loss of health? Or can the hope of glory Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek ?
Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame, For which thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the graveGive a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs Of everlasting punishment condign? Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God, Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, And, oh! assist me so to live on earth, That I may die in peace, and claim a place In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
The Ore of Truth from Mines of
Despise them not-for wisdom's toil
These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills,
The Light of Stars. THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,
Drops down behind the sky.
But the cold light of stars ;
To the red planet Mars.