Imágenes de páginas

Let rich and poor, on whom are now

Such bounteous crops bestow'd, Raise many a pure and holy vow

Of gratitude to God!
And while his gracious name we praise

For bread so kindly given;
Let us beseech him all our days,

To give the bread of heaven.
In that blest prayer our Lord did frame,

Of all our prayers the guide, We ask that * Hallow'd be his name,”

And then our wants supplied.
For grace he bids us first implore,

Next, that we may be fed ;
We say, " Thy will be done,” before
We ask “

our daily bread.”



AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove;
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow :
Babbling echo, or the tale
Of the love-lorn nightingale ;
Hither, airy spirits, come,
This is your peculiar home.
If you love a verdant glade,
If you

love a noontide shade,
Hither sylphs and fairies fly,
Unobserv'd of earthly eye.
Come, and wander ev'ry night,
By the moonbeam's glimm'ring light;
And again at early day
Brush the silver dews away.
Mark where first the daisies blow,
Where the bluest violets grow;
Where the sweetest linnet sings,
Where the earliest cowslip springs.

Where the largest acorn lies,
Precious in a fairy's eyes :
Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place,
Love to fill an acorn's space.
Come, and mark within what bush
Builds the blackbird or the thrush ;
Great his joy who first espies,
Greater his who


the prize! Come, and watch the hallow'd bow'r, Chase the insect from the flow'r ; Little offices like these, Gentle souls and fairies please.

Mortals ! form' of grosser clay, From our haunts keep far away; Or, if you should dare appear, See that you from vice are clear. Folly's minion, fashion's fool, Mad ambition's restless tool ! Slave of passion, slave of pow'r, Fly, ah, fly! this tranquil bow'r ! Son of av'rice, soul of frost, Wretch ! of heav'n abhorr'd the most, Learn to pity others' wants, Or avoid these hallow'd haunts.

Eye unconscious of a tear,
When affliction's train appear :
Heart that never heav'd a sigh
For another, come not nigh.
But ye darling sons of heav'n,
Giving freely what was giv'n:
You, whose lib'ral hands dispense
Che blessings of benevolence :

You, who wipe the tearful eye,
You, who stop the rising sigh;
You, whose souls have understood
The luxury of doing good.
Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open is my bow'r to you ;
You, these mossy banks may press;
You, each guardian Fay shall bless.

« AnteriorContinuar »