 | The rural lyre |  |
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PRAYER AND RESIGNATION.
O deity! Distributor of joy,
Whose attributes we vainly strive to know,
Thou, whom my brethren call to save—destroy,
As suits their present hour of bliss or woe!
Whose attributes we vainly strive to know,
Thou, whom my brethren call to save—destroy,
As suits their present hour of bliss or woe!
Whether this moving orb be worth thy care,
Further than her revolvings are requir'd,
With worlds unknown to travel on the air,
Holding eternal motion still untir'd:
Further than her revolvings are requir'd,
With worlds unknown to travel on the air,
Holding eternal motion still untir'd:
Whether, when call'd for purposes of woe,
Thou wilt obey the impious pray'r of man;
E'en when the ruffian bids Thee aid his blow,
That on the heart despoils thy beauteous plan:
Thou wilt obey the impious pray'r of man;
E'en when the ruffian bids Thee aid his blow,
That on the heart despoils thy beauteous plan:
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Whether, now seated on some radiant throne
(A throne to us the utmost bench of power),
Thou, pitying, bid thy minister make known
Our doleful frolics at this trying hour:
(A throne to us the utmost bench of power),
Thou, pitying, bid thy minister make known
Our doleful frolics at this trying hour:
Whether this morn, behind thy mighty spheres,
Thou pleas'd survey'st thy worlds in order hung;
Whilst thy young handmaid her great work prepares,
And thy lov'd name plays on her trembling tongue:
Thou pleas'd survey'st thy worlds in order hung;
Whilst thy young handmaid her great work prepares,
And thy lov'd name plays on her trembling tongue:
Whether to-day Thou wear'st an awful frown,
Because we eat and sleep on this fair isle;
And, angry, hurl'st us war and famine down,
To call them up at evening with a smile:
Because we eat and sleep on this fair isle;
And, angry, hurl'st us war and famine down,
To call them up at evening with a smile:
Whether all nations be thy care—or we,
First in thine estimation wisely live;
At court, in cottages, so true to Thee,
That thy great seal seems stamp'd on laws we give:
First in thine estimation wisely live;
At court, in cottages, so true to Thee,
That thy great seal seems stamp'd on laws we give:
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Or whether our old code to Thee e'er rose
On the obsequious winds for thy dispense;
Or midway in thy skies to ice is froze,
Wanting thy seal, and of no consequence:
On the obsequious winds for thy dispense;
Or midway in thy skies to ice is froze,
Wanting thy seal, and of no consequence:
Whether we may be quiet, or may war
As suits our humour, and our public purse;
Whether on ---'s bosom the deep scar
Got in a hurly-burly makes him worse;
As suits our humour, and our public purse;
Whether on ---'s bosom the deep scar
Got in a hurly-burly makes him worse;
Or in the sight of angels makes him fair
(As some avow): or whether we should sit,
Some starving on a stone—some on a chair,
And humbly pray for war and noble Pitt:
(As some avow): or whether we should sit,
Some starving on a stone—some on a chair,
And humbly pray for war and noble Pitt:
Or whether we should question Thee,—or fast
By proclamation; whilst the hungry die
Of this same holy abstinence,—outcast,
And needing proclamations of supply:
By proclamation; whilst the hungry die
Of this same holy abstinence,—outcast,
And needing proclamations of supply:
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Whether pale Rapine, wand'ring o'er the land
Hungry and haggard, stung with guilty thirst,
Defile the peasant's hearth at thy command,
And, ere his babes are fed, be fed the first:
Hungry and haggard, stung with guilty thirst,
Defile the peasant's hearth at thy command,
And, ere his babes are fed, be fed the first:
Whether yon noisy Gallicans conspire
To steal our gold,—or THEE,—or break our laws;
Or merely dance a jig themselves to tire,
Whilst wiser we stand batt'ry in thy cause,
To steal our gold,—or THEE,—or break our laws;
Or merely dance a jig themselves to tire,
Whilst wiser we stand batt'ry in thy cause,
IS NOTHING, SIRE, TO ME.—Be where thou wilt,
I will adore: to Thee my thought shall fly—
But beg, should my poor life by man be spilt,
Thou wilt not wear for me one sable sky.
I will adore: to Thee my thought shall fly—
But beg, should my poor life by man be spilt,
Thou wilt not wear for me one sable sky.
I ne'er could pray at watch-words of mankind—
Nor can I give much gold—my purse is light:
Nor can I see Thee, Father! but in mind,
When Contemplation puts my woes to flight.
Nor can I give much gold—my purse is light:
Nor can I see Thee, Father! but in mind,
When Contemplation puts my woes to flight.
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Nay, but Thou art familiar to my thought,
I would grow loud in pious breathings; groan,
Awake my next-door neighbour, seem distraught,
And prove I love Thee only in—a tone.
I would grow loud in pious breathings; groan,
Awake my next-door neighbour, seem distraught,
And prove I love Thee only in—a tone.
But Thou'rt my friend! Thou know'st my secret soul!
Then what have I to do with human sound?
With Thee, alone, I fly from pole to pole,
Heedless of mortals, who my sense confound.
Then what have I to do with human sound?
With Thee, alone, I fly from pole to pole,
Heedless of mortals, who my sense confound.
The ills of life fall off me as I stand
A dauntless spirit gazing up to Thee;
And when this weary frame may press the sand,
Or my light ashes strew the roaring sea,
A dauntless spirit gazing up to Thee;
And when this weary frame may press the sand,
Or my light ashes strew the roaring sea,
I trust Thee, Sire: all individual life
Must melt to renovate.—This myst'ry keeps
The varying nations of mankind at strife;
Piously mad, man murders man—and weeps!
Must melt to renovate.—This myst'ry keeps
The varying nations of mankind at strife;
Piously mad, man murders man—and weeps!
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I do not like these blunders.—I am warm;
And, to be blest, I must be lov'd by Thee:
Thyself will take me from the pitiless storm,
When from this wild my soul shall gladly flee.
And, to be blest, I must be lov'd by Thee:
Thyself will take me from the pitiless storm,
When from this wild my soul shall gladly flee.
But whilst I wander on, my sole desire
Is harmony, such as thyself may hear:—
O teach me, Father! so to touch the lyre
That woe may smile, and social joy be near.
Is harmony, such as thyself may hear:—
O teach me, Father! so to touch the lyre
That woe may smile, and social joy be near.
Teach me to soothe the fierce; to melt the heart;
To paint the passions nipping beauty's bloom:
When pensive age is ling'ring to depart,
Give me to chase black horror from the tomb.
To paint the passions nipping beauty's bloom:
When pensive age is ling'ring to depart,
Give me to chase black horror from the tomb.
Yes, from this tomb, where waving willows bend,
I call Thee, Father! thro' thy starry skies,
To thine eternal care his shade commend,
Whose form but changes as it slumb'ring lies.
I call Thee, Father! thro' thy starry skies,
To thine eternal care his shade commend,
Whose form but changes as it slumb'ring lies.
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For me, I am obedient—whilst I stay,
My fellow-dreamers thro' the world I'll love;
Nor shall one grieve, can I his griefs allay,
Much less should earth ensanguin'd fury move.
My fellow-dreamers thro' the world I'll love;
Nor shall one grieve, can I his griefs allay,
Much less should earth ensanguin'd fury move.
Be still, ye nations!—Ye but fight to die.
No trophies deck this path of threescore years,
Worthy the widow's groan, and orphan's cry—
Your mimic wars Jehovah never hears!
No trophies deck this path of threescore years,
Worthy the widow's groan, and orphan's cry—
Your mimic wars Jehovah never hears!
And it were best oblivion should await
Those crimes at which e'en human thought is chill'd—
Or go, grim warrior! boldly challenge fate,
Command thy God to mark thy number kill'd!
Those crimes at which e'en human thought is chill'd—
Or go, grim warrior! boldly challenge fate,
Command thy God to mark thy number kill'd!
O Deity! hear not this warrior's voice;
Be deaf, lest Thou condemn him with a frown—
Or shouldst Thou hear him—mercy be thy choice!
Think he but murder'd to preserve a crown.
Be deaf, lest Thou condemn him with a frown—
Or shouldst Thou hear him—mercy be thy choice!
Think he but murder'd to preserve a crown.
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All I commend to Thee! I am but one;
O'er me the mighty pass; I fear the strong—
But till thy voice comes for me o'er the sun,
I'll here attune my solitary song.
O'er me the mighty pass; I fear the strong—
But till thy voice comes for me o'er the sun,
I'll here attune my solitary song.
Bristol Wells, September 26, 1795.
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