 | The Poems of Ambrose Philips |  |
Occasion'd by the early SINGING of a LARK.
Attend, my Soul! The early Birds inspire
My groveling Thoughts with pure, celestial Fire.
They from their temp'rate Sleep awake, and pay
Their thankful Anthems for the New-born Day.
See, how the tuneful Lark is mounted high!
And, Poet-like, salutes the Eastern Sky.
He warbles thro' the fragrant Air his Layes,
And seems the Beauties of the Morn to praise.
My groveling Thoughts with pure, celestial Fire.
They from their temp'rate Sleep awake, and pay
Their thankful Anthems for the New-born Day.
See, how the tuneful Lark is mounted high!
And, Poet-like, salutes the Eastern Sky.
He warbles thro' the fragrant Air his Layes,
And seems the Beauties of the Morn to praise.
But Man, more void of Gratitude, awakes,
And gives no Thanks for that sweet Rest he takes:
Looks on the glorious Sun's new-kindled Flame,
Without one Thought of Him, from whom it came.
The Wretch, unhallow'd, does the Day begin;
Shakes off his Sleep, but shakes not off his Sin.
And gives no Thanks for that sweet Rest he takes:
Looks on the glorious Sun's new-kindled Flame,
Without one Thought of Him, from whom it came.
The Wretch, unhallow'd, does the Day begin;
Shakes off his Sleep, but shakes not off his Sin.
| The Poems of Ambrose Philips | |