« VorigeDoorgaan »
While cloud to clouds returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound; the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song Burst from the groves ; and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles ; At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Still sing the God of seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, Or Winter rises in the blackening eastBe my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.
Should Fate command me to the farthest verge
R. E. PEACH, Printer, 8, Bridge Street, Bath.