 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
306
MORNING.
Had I a harp by angels strung,
A seraph's voice, a prophet's tongue,
My soul, to heav'n's high King,
Now, while from ev'ry dewy thorn
The merry birds salute the morn,
Should hallelujahs sing.
A seraph's voice, a prophet's tongue,
My soul, to heav'n's high King,
Now, while from ev'ry dewy thorn
The merry birds salute the morn,
Should hallelujahs sing.
But though no saint or seraph's fire
Hath touch'd my lip, or tun'd my lyre,
To animate my lays;
Do thou from thine ethereal sphere,
In tender mercy deign to hear,
And pardon while I praise.
Hath touch'd my lip, or tun'd my lyre,
To animate my lays;
Do thou from thine ethereal sphere,
In tender mercy deign to hear,
And pardon while I praise.
“Is there a God?” the sceptic cries—
Who form'd the earth, who built the skies?
By whose command divine
Do yonder circling planets run,
And that celestial orb, the sun,
In all its glory shine?
Who form'd the earth, who built the skies?
By whose command divine
Do yonder circling planets run,
And that celestial orb, the sun,
In all its glory shine?
307
Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r
Upholds thee in affliction's hour,
Nor leaves thy soul to weep?
Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will,
Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?
Upholds thee in affliction's hour,
Nor leaves thy soul to weep?
Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will,
Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?
Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,
And all in heav'n and earth?
Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,
That hail'd Creation's birth?
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,
And all in heav'n and earth?
Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,
That hail'd Creation's birth?
Who, when the battle's rage begins,
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,
Assumes its giant form,
Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?
The Genius of the storm!
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,
Assumes its giant form,
Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?
The Genius of the storm!
Who, when upon the bed of death
The bleeding hero pants for breath
Beneath the fatal blow,
Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,
He shall enjoy, in realms above,
His glories gain'd below?
The bleeding hero pants for breath
Beneath the fatal blow,
Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,
He shall enjoy, in realms above,
His glories gain'd below?
308
'Tis God! whose throne is fix'd on high,
Lord of the universe, and sky,
Whom earth and heav'n revere;
Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour,
Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r,
And crowns the varied year!
Lord of the universe, and sky,
Whom earth and heav'n revere;
Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour,
Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r,
And crowns the varied year!
Eternal truths though myst'ry veil,
When man hath chang'd his nature frail,
Those truths shall God reveal:
Earth shall to her foundations shake,
When he the book of life shall take,
And break the sacred seal.
When man hath chang'd his nature frail,
Those truths shall God reveal:
Earth shall to her foundations shake,
When he the book of life shall take,
And break the sacred seal.
A pilgrim in this world of strife,
Thy faith, my staff—thy breath, my life,—
Thy hope, and promise giv'n,—
The pow'r of sin and death destroy,
Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;
And earth, a step to heav'n.
Thy faith, my staff—thy breath, my life,—
Thy hope, and promise giv'n,—
The pow'r of sin and death destroy,
Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;
And earth, a step to heav'n.
| The Modern Dunciad | |