« AnteriorContinuar »
Doubtless it is.-To which, of my own store,
And yet our lot is gir'n us in a land,
But above all in her own light array'd,
* to pour
'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines,
it on the farthest north:
O blest within th' enclosure of your rocks,
have ye; no cheerful sound of bird, Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard; Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell Of those, that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell: But Winter, arm’d with terrours here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne; Piles
up his stores amidst the frozen waste, And bids the mountains he has built stand fast; Beckons the legions of his storms away From happier scenes, to make your
land a prey;
The Moravian Missionaries in Greenland. See Krantz.
Proclaims the soil a conquest be has won,
- Yet Truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle!
Here see th' encouragement Grace gives to vice, The dire effect of mercy without price! What were they? what some fools are made by art, They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. The gross idolatry blind heathens teach Was too refin'd for them, beyond their reach. Not ev'n the glorious Sun, though men revere The monarch most, that seldom will appear,
And though his beams, that quicken where they
shine, May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, Not ev'n the Sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; They were, what base Credulity believes True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves. The full-gorg'd savage, at his nauseous feast Spent half the darkness, and snor'd out the rest, Was one, whom Justice, on an equal plan Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulg'd with an escape, Chargeable only with a human shape.
What are they now?-Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there: The wretch, who once sang wildly, danc'd and
laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, revers'd his ways, Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, Feeds sparingly, communicates his store, Abhors the craft he boasted of before, And he that stole has learn’d to steal no more. Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing, Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring,
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew,
Go now, and with important tone demand
These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied The common care that waits on all beside, Wild as if Nature there, void of all good, Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, (Yet charge not heav'nly skill with having plann'd A plaything world, unworthy of his hand;) Can see his love, though secret evil lurks In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works; Deem life a blessing with it's num'rous woes, Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam! Is hope exotic? grows it not at home?