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The Works of the Late Aaron Hill

... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting

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Paraphrase on the third Chapter of Habakuk.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Paraphrase on the third Chapter of Habakuk.

God of my fathers! stretch thy oft-try'd hand,
And yet, once more, redeem thy chosen land:
Once more, by wonders, make thy glories known,
And, 'midst thy anger, be thy mercy shown!
O! I have heard thy dreadful actions told,
And my soul burns thy terrors to unfold.
At Israel's call, the' almighty's thunder hurl'd,
From Paran's summit, shook th'astonish'd world;
The flaming heav'ns blaze, dreadful, through the sky,
And earth's dark regions gleam, beneath his eye.
High, in his undetermin'd hands, he bore
Judgment's heap'd horn, and mercy's struggling store;

25

Meagre, before him, Death, pale horror! trod,
And, grinning shadowy, watch'd the almighty nod:
Gath'ring, beneath his feet flash'd lightnings broke,
And the aw'd mountain shook, conceal'd in smoke.
He stood; and, while the measur'd earth he ey'd,
The starting nations dropt their conscious pride;
High-boasting Cushan struck her tents, in shame,
And Midian groan'd, beneath repented fame.
He mov'd; and, from their old foundations rent,
The everlasting hills, before him, bent;
He stept; and all th' uprising mountains stray,
And roll, in earthquakes, to escape his way:
From their enormous chasms, with roaring tide,
Earth-cleaving rivers spout, and deluge wide:
The sea, alarm'd, climb'd fast, its god to spy,
And, in outragious triumph, swept the sky.
Conscious of wrath divine, the sun grew pale,
And, o'er his radiance, drew a gloomy veil.
Thus did my God (to save th' endanger'd land)
March forth, indignant, with vindictive hand;
This, when I hear, chill blasts my soul o'erspread,
And my lips quiver, with the rising dread:

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Trembling all o'er, my limbs I faintly draw,
And my bones crumble, with ideal awe.
Now, tho' the fig-tree ne'er should blossom yield,
Tho' sterile coldness curse th'unrip'ning field;
Tho' vines, and olives, fail their loady chear,
Nor fainting herds out-live the pining year;
Yet, shall my soul, in God's sure aid, rejoice,
And earth's high sov'reign claim my heav'n-tun'd voice.