The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
 | IV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
Young Men and Maidens, old Men and Babes, praise ye the Lord, Psalm cxlviii. 12.
|
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| VIII. |
 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
Young Men and Maidens, old Men and Babes, praise ye the Lord, Psalm cxlviii. 12.
I.
Sons of Adam, bold and young,In the wild mazes of whose veins
A flood of fiery vigour reigns,
And weilds your active limbs, with hardy sinews strung;
Fall prostrate at th'eternal throne
Whence your precarious pow'rs depend;
Nor swell as if your lives were all your own,
But choose your Maker for your friend;
His favour is your life, his arm is your support,
His hand can stretch your days, or cut your minutes short.
II.
Virgins, who roll your artful eyes,And shoot delicious danger thence:
Swift the lovely lightning flies,
And melts our reason down to sense;
Boast not of those with'ring charms
That must yield their youthful grace
To age and wrinkles, earth and worms;
But love the Author of your smiling face;
That heav'nly Bridegroom claims your blooming hours;
O make it your perpetual care
To please that everlasting Fair;
His beauties are the sun, and but the shade is yours.
III.
Infants, whose different destiniesAre wove with threads of different size;
But from the same spring-tide of tears,
Commence your hopes, and joys, and fears,
(A tedious train!) and date your following years:
Break your first silence in his praise
Who wrought your wondrous frame:
With sounds of tenderest accent raise
Young honours to his name;
And consecrate your early days
To know the pow'r supreme:
IV.
Ye heads of venerable ageJust marching off the mortal stage,
Fathers, whose vital threads are spun
As long as e'er the glass of life would run,
Adore the hand that led your way
Thro' flow'ry fields a fair long summer's day;
Gasp out your soul in praises to the sovereign pow'r
That set your west so distant from your dawning hour.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |