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POEMS BY MISS HANNAH MORE. TO WIT, SENSIBILITY; AND REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH.
To draw the rich materials from the mine,
To bid the mass of intellect refine;
To melt the firm, to animate the cold,
And Heav'n's own impress stamp on nature's gold;
To give immortal Mind its firmest tone,
O SENSIBILITY! is all thy own.
MORE.
PHILADELPHIA: Printed by YOUNG, STEWART, and McCULLOCH, in Chesnut-Street, No. 7, below Third-Street. M. DCC. LXXXV.
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To the Public.
THE high approbation our Poetess has received from the Monthly Reviewers, may with propriety be introduced whenever her works, or part of them, are re-published. A few of their observations are— ‘Of the Dramas we cannot express our approbation more strongly than by observing, that they are admirably calculated for the end they are designed to answer—the instruction and amusement of youth; being equally adapted to inform the understanding, and to improve the heart.’
The Poem Sensibility has so much engaged their attention, that near four pages are filled up in laying several parts thereof before their readers, and in pointing out its beauties. They say— ‘In a book 'chiefly intended for young persons,' it is not with impropriety that Miss More has introduced the concluding composition 'Sensibility;' there being nothing of which they are more apt to form mistaken ideas than that of sympathetic tenderness, which is supposed to have its source in the amiable affections of the heart. From these mistaken ideas it is that so many, by giving way to the immoderate indulgence of sensibility, destroy their own peace; while a still greater number, by its affectation, render themselves disgusting.’ Monthly Review, for July 1782.
If this Publication meets with encouragement, others of a like kind will be laid before the Public.
The Printers.
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SENSIBILITY: A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE HON. MRS. BOSCAWEN.
Spirits are not finely touch'd
But to fine issues—
SHAKESPEARE.
ACCEPT, BOSCAWEN! these unpolish'd lays,
Nor blame too much the verse you cannot praise.
For you far other Bards have wak'd the string;
Far other bards for you were wont to sing.
Yet on the gale their parting music steals,
Yet, your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels.
You heard the lyres of Lyttleton and Young;
And this a Grace, and that a Seraph strung.
These are no more!—But not with these decline
The Attic chasteness, and the flame divine.
And either Warton breathe his classic strain.
Nor fear lest genuine poesy expire,
While tuneful Beattie wakes old Spenser's lyre.
His Sympathetic lay his soul reveals,
And paints the perfect Bard from what he feels.
Illustrious Lowth †! for him the muses wove,
The fairest garland from their greenest grove.
Tho' Latian bards had gloried in his name,
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame;
Yet, fir'd with nobler hopes than transient bays,
He scorn'd the meed of perishable praise;
Spurn'd the cheap wreathe by human science won,
Borne on the wing sublime of Amos' son:
He seiz'd his mantle as the prophet flew,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring fate,
And bid it boast with him a deathless date;
To shew how genius fires, how taste restrains,
While what both are his pencil best explains,
To prove his lowest title was a Wit?
Tho' purer flames thy hallow'd zeal inspire
Than o'er were kindled at the Muse's fire;
Thee, mitred | Chester! all the Nine shall boast:
And is not Johnson theirs, himself an host?
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Yes:—still for you your gentle stars dispense
The charm of friendship, and the feast of sense.
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,
To call the wisest, brightest, best—your friends.
With Carter trace the wit to Athens known,
Or find in Montagu that wit our own.
Or, pleas'd, attend Chapone's instructive page;
Which charms her own, and forms the rising age.
Or boast in Walsingham the various pow'r,
To soothe the lonely, grace the letter'd hour;
To polish'd life its highest charm she gives,
Whose song is music, and whose canvass lives.
Delany shines, in worth serenely bright,
Wisdom's strong ray, and Virtue's milder light;
And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the page
Of Swift, still lends her lustre to our age:
Long, long protract thy light, O star benign!
Whose setting beams with added brightness shine!
O, much lov'd Barbauld! shall my heart refuse
Its tribute to thy Virtues and thy Muse?
While round thy brow the Poet's wreathe I twine,
This humble merit shall at least be mine,
In all thy praise to take a gen'rous part;
Thy laurels bind thee closer to my heart:
My verse thy merits to the world shall teach,
And love the genius it despairs to reach.
Yet, what is wit, and what the Poet's art?
Can Genius shield the vulnerable heart?
Ah, no! where bright imagination reigns,
The fine-wrought spirit feels acuter pains:
Where glow exalted sense, and taste refin'd,
There keener anguish rankles in the mind:
[Page 8]There feeling is diffus'd thro' ev'ry part,
Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart:
And those, whose gen'rous souls each tear wou'd keep
From others eyes, are born themselves to weep.
Say, can the boasted pow'rs of wit and song,
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong?
Presumptuous hope! which daily truth deride;
For you, alas! have wept—and Garrick dy'd!
Ne'er shall my heart his lov'd remembrance lose,
Guide, critic, guardian, glory of my muse!
Oh, shades of Hampton! witness as I mourn,
Cou'd wit or song elude his destin'd urn?
Tho' living virtue still your haunts endears,
Yet bury'd worth shall justify my tears!
Garrick! those pow'rs which form a friend were thine;
And let me add, with pride, that friend was mine:
With pride! at once the vain emotion's fled;
Far other thoughts are sacred to the dead.
Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool,
Th' unequal wand'rings of my muse shall rule?
Whose partial praise my worthless verse [...]nsure?
For Candor smil'd, when Garrick wou'd endure.
If harsher critics were compell'd to blame,
I gain'd in friendship what I lost in fame;
And friendship's fost'ring smiles can well repay
What critic rigour justly takes away.
With keen acumen how his piercing eye
The fault, conceal'd from vulgar view, wou'd spy!
While with a gen'rous warmth he strove to hide,
Nay vindicate the fault his judgment spied.
So pleas'd, cou'd he detect a happy line,
That he wou'd fancy merit ev'n in mine.
[Page 9]Oh gen'rous error, when by friendship bred!
His praises flatter'd me, but not misled.
No narrow views cou'd bound his lib'ral mind;
His friend was man, his party human kind.
Agreed in this, opposing statesmen strove
Who most should gain his praise, or court his love.
His worth all hearts as to one centre drew;
Thus Tully's Atticus was Caesar's too.
His wit so keen, it never miss'd its end;
So blameless too, it never lost a friend;
So chaste, that Modesty ne'er learn'd to fear;
So pure, Religion might unwounded hear.
How his quick mind, strong pow'rs and ardent heart,
Impoverish'd nature, and exhausted art,
A brighter bard records *, a deathless muse!—
But I his talents in his virtues lose:
Great parts are Nature's gift; but that he shone
Wise, moral, good and virtuous—was his own.
Tho' Time his silent hand across has stole,
Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul;
The deep impression long my heart shall fill,
And ev'ry mellow'd trace be perfect still.
Forgive, BOSCAWEN, if my sorrowing heart,
Intent on grief, forget the rules of art;
Forgive, if wounded recollection melt—
You best can pardon, who have oft'nest felt.
You, who for many a friend and hero mourn,
Who bend in anguish o'er the frequent urn;
You who have found how much the feeling heart
Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dar [...];
[Page 10]You, who from tender sad experience feel
The wounds such minds receive can never heal;
That grief a thousand entrances can find,
Where parts superior dignify the mind;
Wou'd you renounce the pangs these feelings give,
Secure in joyless apathy to live?
For tho' in souls, where taste and sense abound,
Pain thro' a thousand avenues can wound;
Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual blessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the trembling temper more awake
To every wound which misery can make,
Than is the finely-fashion'd nerve alive
To every transport pleasure has to give.
For if, when home-felt joys the mind elate,
It mourns in secret for another's fate;
Yet when its own sad griefs invade the breast,
Abroad, in other blessings, see it blest!
Ev'n the soft sorrow of remember'd woe
A not unpleasing sadness may bestow.
Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain,
Their jests the tender anguish wou'd profane:
Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind,
Whose low enjoyments never reach'd the mind;
Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have known,
Nor ever felt a sorrow but their own;
Who call romantic every finer thought,
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought.
Ah! wherefore happy? where's the kindred mind?
Where, the large soul that takes in human kind?
Where, the best passions of the mortal breast?
Where, the warm blessing when another's blest?
[Page 11]Where, the soft lenitives' of others pain,
The social sympathy, the sense humane,
The sigh of rapture, and the tear of joy,
Anguish that charms, and transports that destroy?
For tender Sorrow has her pleasures too;
Pleasures, which prosp'rous Dulness never knew.
She never knew, in all her coarser bliss,
The sacred rapture of a pain like this!
Nor think, the cautious only are the just;
Who never was deceiv'd I wou'd not trust.
Then take, ye happy vulgar! take your part
Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart.
Benevolence, which seldom stays to chuse,
Lest pausing Prudence teach her to refuse;
Friendship, which once determin'd, never swerves,
Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it serves;
And soft-ey'd Pity, and Forgiveness bland,
And melting Charity with open hand;
And artless Love, believing and believ'd,
And gen'rous Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd;
And Mercy stretching out, ere Want can speak,
To wipe the tear from pale Affliction's cheek;
These ye have never known!—then take your part
Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart.
Ye, who have melted in bright Glory's flame,
Or felt the spirit-stirring breath of fame!
Ye noble few! in whom her promis'd meed
Wakes the great thought, and makes the wish the deed!
Ye, who have tasted the delight to give,
And, GOD's own agents, bid the wretched live;
Who the chill haunts of Desolation seek,
Raise the sunk heart, and flush the fading cheek!
[Page 12]Ye, who with pensive Petrarch love to mourn,
Or weave fresh chaplets for Tibullus' urn.
Who cherish both in Hammond's plaintive lay,
The Provence myrtle, and the Roman bay!
Ye, who divide the joys and share the pains
Which merit feels, or Heav'n-born Fancy feigns;
Wou'd you renounce such joys, such pains as these,
For vulgar pleasures, or for selfish eafe?
Wou'd you, to 'scape the pain the joy forego;
And miss the transport to avoid the woe?
Wou'd you the sense of real sorrow lose,
Or cease to wooe the melancholy Muse?
No, Greville *! no!—Thy song tho' steep'd in tears,
Tho' all thy soul in all thy strain appears;
Yet wou'dst thou all thy well-sung anguish chuse,
And all th' inglorious peace thou begg'st, refuse.
Or you, BOSCAWEN! when you fondly melt,
In raptures none but mothers ever felt;
And view enamour'd in your beauteous race,
All Leveson's sweetness, and and all Beaufort's grace!
Yet think what dangers each lov'd child may share,
The youth if valiant, and the maid if fair;
That perils multiply as blessings flow,
And constant sorrows on enjoyments grow:
You, who have felt how fugitive is joy,
That while we clasp the phantom we destroy;
That life's bright sun is dimm'd by clouded views,
And who have most to love have most to lose;
Yet from these fair possessions wou'd you part,
To shield from future pain your guarded heart?
[Page 13]Wou'd your fond mind renounce its tender boast,
Or wish their op'ning bloom of promise lost?
Yield the dear hopes, which break upon your view,
For all the quiet, Dulness ever knew?
Debase the objects of your tend'rest pray'r,
To save the dangers of a distant care?
Consent, to shun the anxious fears you prove;
They less should merit, or you less should love?
Yet, while I hail the Sympathy Divine,
Which makes, O man! the wants of others thine:
I mourn heroic JUSTICE, scarcely own'd,
And Principle for Sentiment dethron'd.
While Feeling boasts her ever-tearful eye,
Stern Truth, firm Faith, and manly Virtue fly.
Sweet SENSIBILITY! thou soothing pow'r,
Who shedd'st thy blessings on the natal hour,
Like fairy favours! Art can never seize,
Nor Affectation catch thy pow'r to please:
Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains
Of Definition, and defeats her pains.
Sweet Sensibility! thou keen delight!
Thou hasty moral, sudden sense of right!
Thou untaught goodness! Virtue [...] precious seed!
Thou sweet precursor of the gen'rous deed!
Beauty's quick relish! Reason's radiant morn,
Which dawns soft light before Reflection's born!
To those who know thee not, no words can paint!
And those who know thee, know all words are faint▪
'Tis not to mourn because a sparrow dies;
To rave in artificial extasies:
'Tis not to melt in tender Otway's fires;
'Tis not to faint when injur'd Shore expires:
[Page 14]'Tis not because the ready eye o'erflows
At Clementina's, or Clarissa's woes.
Forgive, O RICHARDSON! nor think I mean,
With cold contempt, to blast thy peerless scene▪
If some faint love of virtue glow in me,
Pure spirit! I first caught that flame from thee.
While soft Compassion silently relieves,
Loquacious Feeling hints how much she gives;
Laments how oft her wounded heart has bled,
And boasts of many a tear she never shed.
As words are but th' external marks, to tell
The fair ideas in the mind that dwell;
And only are of things the outward sign,
And not the things themselves, they but define;
So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears,
And all the graceful drapery Pity wears;
These are not Pity's self, they but express
Her inward sufferings by their pictur'd dress;
And these fair marks, reluctant I relate,
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit.
Celestial Pity! why must I deplore,
Thy sacred image stamp'd on basest ore?
There are, who fill with brilliant plaints the page,
If a poor linnet meet the gunner's rage:
There are who for a dying fawn display
The tend'rest anguish in the sweetest lay;
Who for a wounded animal deplore,
As if friend, parent, country were no more;
Who boast quick rapture trembling in their eye,
If from the spider's snare they save a fly;
Whose well-sung sorrows every breast inflame,
And break all hearts but his from whom they came,
[Page 15]Yet scorning life's dull duties to attend,
Will persecute a wife, or wrong a friend;
Alive to every woe by fiction dress'd;
The innocent he wrong'd, the wretch distress'd,
May plead in vain; their suff'rings come not near,
Or he relieves them cheaply with a tear.
Not so the tender moralist * of Tweed;
His Man of Feeling is a man indeed.
Oh, bless'd Compassion! Angel Charity!
More dear one genuine deed perform'd for thee,
Than all the periods feeling e'er can turn,
Than all thy soothing pages, polish'd STERNE!
Not that by deeds alone this love's exprest,
If so, the affluent only were the blest.
One silent wish, one pray'r, one soothing word,
The precious page of Mercy shall record;
One soul-felt sigh by pow'rless Pity giv'n,
Accepted incense! shall ascend to Heav'n.
Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our Mis'ry from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save or serve, but all may please:
Oh! let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain;
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless Mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With pow'r to grace them, or to crown with health,
[Page 16]Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees
To all, the gift of minist'ring to ease.
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flatt'ry, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at another's fault,
The taunting word suppress'd as soon as thought;
On these Heav'n bade the bliss of life depend,
And crush'd ill fortune when he made a Friend.
A Solitary blessing few can find,
Our joys with those we love are intertwin'd;
And he, whose helpful tenderness removes
Th' obstructing thorn which wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to adorn his own.
The hint malevolent, the look oblique,
The obvious satire, or implied dislike;
The sneer equivocal, the harsh reply,
And all the cruel language of the eye;
The artful injury, whose venom'd dart,
Scarce wounds the hearing while it stabs the heart;
The guarded phrase whose meaning kills, yet told,
The list'ner wonders how you thought it cold;
Small slights, contempt, neglect unmix'd with hate,
Make up in number what they want in weight.
These, and a thousand griefs minute as these,
Corrode our comfort, and destroy our ease.
As this strong feeling tends to good or ill,
It gives fresh pow'r to vice or principle;
'Tis not peculiar to the wise and good;
'Tis passion's flame, the virtue of the blood.
Put to divert it to its proper course,
There Wisdom's pow'r appears, there Reason's force;
[Page 17]If, ill-directed, it pursues the wrong,
It adds new strength to what before was strong;
Breaks out in wild irregular desires,
Disorder'd passions, and illicit fires.
But if the virtuous bias rule the soul,
This lovely feeling then adorns the whole;
Sheds its sweet sunshine on the moral part,
Nor wastes on fancy what shou'd warm the heart.
Cold and inert the mental pow'rs would lie,
Without this quick'ning spark of Deity.
To draw the rich materials from the mine,
To bid the mass of intellect refine;
To melt the firm, to animate the cold,
And Heav'n's own impress stamp on nature's gold;
To give immortal Mind its finest tone,
O SENSIBILITY! is all thy own.
THIS is th' etherial flame which lights and warms,
In song transports us, and in action charms.
Win to the open heart their easy way.
Makes the touch'd spirit glow with kindred fire,
When sweet Serena's † poet wakes the lyre.
'Tis this, though Nature's hidden treasures lie,
Bare to the keen inspection of her eye,
Makes Portland's face its brightest rapture wear,
When her large bounty smooths the bed of care.
[Page 18]'Tis this, that breathe's through Sevigne's sweet page,
That nameless grace which soothes a second age.
'Tis this whose charms the soul resistless seize,
And gives BOSCAWEN half her pow'r to please.
Yet, why those terrors? why that anxious care?
Since your last * hope the deathful war will dare?
Why d [...]ead that energy of soul which leads
To dang'rous glory by heroic deeds?
Why tremble lest this ardent soul aspire?—
You fear the son because you knew the sire.
Hereditary valour you deplore,
And dread, yet wish to find one hero more.
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REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH IN HIS SICKNESS.
‘Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die.’ISAIAH xxxviii.
WHAT, and no more?—Is this, my soul, said I,
My whole of being?—Must I surely die?
Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,
The cheerful day-light, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bow'r, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave?
Have I consider'd what it is to die?
In native dust with kindred worms to lie;
To sleep in cheerless cold neglect; to rot;
My body loath'd, my very name forgot!
Not one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What, not one friend! No, not an hireling slave,
Shall hail Great HEZEKIAH in the grave!
[Page 20]Where's he, who falsely claim'd the name of Great?
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate;
Who aw'd an hundred nations from the throne?
See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone!
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?
Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where?
Which is the slave, and which great David's heir?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known
From his, who lately sat on Israel's throne!
How stands my great account? My soul, survey
The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay!
Shou'd I frail Memory's records strive to blot,
Will Heav'n's tremendous reck'ning be forgot?
Can I, alas! the awful volume tear?
Or raze one page of the dread register?
Prepare thy house, thy heart in order set;
Prepare, the Judge of Heav'n and Earth to meet.
So spake the warning Prophet.—Awful words!
Which fearfully my troubled soul records.
Am I prepar'd? and can I meet my doom,
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come?
Is all in order set, my house, my heart,
Does no besetting sin still claim a part?
Does no one cherish'd vice, with ling'ring pace,
Reluctant leave me to the work of grace?
Did I each day for this great day prepare,
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing pray'r?
Did I each night, each day's offence repent,
And each unholy thought and word lament?
Still have these ready hands the afflicted fed,
And ministred to Want her daily bread?
[Page 21]The cause I knew not, did I well explore?
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor?
Did I, to gratify some sudden gust
Of thoughtless appetite; some impious lust
Of pleasure or of power, such sums employ
As would have crown'd pale penury with joy?
Did I in groves forbidden altars raise,
Or molten Gods adore, or idols praise?
Did my firm faith to Heav'n still point the way?
Did charity to man my actions sway?
Did meek-ey'd Patience all my steps attend?
Did gen'rous Candor mark me for her friend?
Did I unjustly seek to build my name
On the pil'd ruins of another's fame?
Did I, like hell, abhor th' insidious lie,
The low deceit, th' unmanly calumny?
Did my fix'd soul the impious wit detest?
Did my firm virtue scorn th' unhallow'd jest?
The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule
Of shallow Infidelity's dull school?
Did I still live as born one day to die,
And view th' eternal world with constant eye?
If so I liv'd, if so I kept thy word,
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, LORD!
My holiest deeds indulgence will require,
The best but to forgiveness will aspire;
If Thou my purest services regard,
'Twill be with pardon only, not reward!
How imperfection's stamp'd on all below!
How sin intrudes on all we say or do!
How late in all the insolence of health,
I charm'd th' Assyrian by my boast of wealth!
[Page 22]How fondly, with elab'rate pomp, display'd
My glitt'ring treasures! with what triumph laid
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes,
And found a rich reward in his surprise *!
O, mean of soul! can wealth elate the heart,
Which of the man himself is not a part?
O, poverty of pride! O, foul disgrace!
Disgusted reason, blushing, hides her face.
Mortal, and proud! strange contradicting terms?
Pride for Death's victim, for the prey of worms!
Of all the wonders which th' eventful life
Of man presents; of all the mental strife
Of warring passions; all the raging fires
Of furious appetites, and mad desires,
Not one so strange appears, as this alone,
That man is proud of what is not his own.
How short is human life! the very breath,
Which frames my words, accelerates my death▪
Of this short life how large a portion's fled!
To what is gone I am already dead;
As dead to all my years and minutes past,
As I, to what remains shall be at last.
Can I my cares and pains so far forget,
To view my vanish'd years with fond regret?
Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat?
Indulge fresh hope? solicit new deceit?
Of all the vanities weak man admires,
Which greatness gives, or sanguine youth desires,
[Page 23]Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoy'd?
With each, with all, thy fated pow'rs are cloy'd.
What can I then expect from length of days?
More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, or praise?
More pleasure! hope not that, deluded king!
For when did age increase of pleasure bring?
Is health of years prolong'd the common boast?
And dear-earn'd praise, is it not cheaply lost?
More wisdom! that indeed were happiness;
That were a wish a king might well confess:
But when did Wisdom covet length of days;
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise?
No:—Wisdom views with an indiff'rent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast:
A spark, which upward tends by nature's force;
A stream, diverted from its parent source;
A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea;
A moment, parted from eternity;
A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.
Why should I ask my forfeit life to save?
Is Heav'n unjust, which dooms me to the grave?
Was I with hope of endless days deceiv'd?
Or of lov'd life am I alone bereav'd?
Let all the great, the rich, the learn'd, the wise,
Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise;
And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth,
Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown, or health,
Has once revers'd th' immutable decree
On Adam pass'd, of man's mortality?
[Page 24]What—have these eyes ne'er seen the felon wor [...]
The damask cheek devour, the finish'd form?
On the pale rose of blasted beauty fed,
And riot on the lip so lately red?
Where are our fathers? Where th' illustrious line
Of holy prophets and of men divine?
Live they for ever? Do they shun the grave?
Or when did wisdom its professor save?
When did the brave escape? When did the breath
Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of Death?
When did the cunning argument avail,
The polish'd period, or the varnish'd tale;
The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire,
Which thronging thousands crowded to admire?
Ev'n while we praise the verse, the poet dies;
And silent as his lyre great David lies.
Thou blest Isaiah! who, at God's command,
Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land,
Must die! as wise and good thou hadst not been;
As Nebat's son who taught the land to sin!
And shall I then be spar'd? O monstrous pride!
Shall I escape, when Solomon has died?
If all the worth of all the saints was vain—
Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare complain!
LORD! I submit. Complete thy gracious will!
For if Thou slay me *, I will trust Thee still.
O be my will so swallow'd up in thine,
That I may do thy will in doing mine.
THE END.