William Cowper

(excerpt) Thus heav’n-ward all things tend. For all were once Perfect, and all must be at length restor’d. So God has greatly purpos’d; who would else In his dishonour’d works himself endure Dishonour, and be wrong’d without redress. Haste then, and wheel away a shatter’d world, Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see, (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) A world that does not dread and hate his laws, And suffer for its crime; would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good, How pleasant in itself what pleases him. Here ev’ry drop of honey hides a sting, Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow’rs, And ev’n the joy that haply some poor heart Derives from heav’n, pure as the fountain Is sully’d in the stream; taking a taint From touch of human lips, at best impure. Oh for a world in principle as chaste As this is gross and selfish! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, That govern all things here, should’ring aside The meek and modest truth, and forcing her To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men: Where violence shall never lift the sword, Nor cunning justify the proud man’s wrong, Leaving the poor no remedy but tears: Where he that fills an office, shall esteem Th’ occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite: Where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts And equity; not jealous more to guard A worthless form, than to decide aright: Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) With lean performance ape the work of love. . . . He is the happy man, whose life ev’n now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doom’d to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleas’d with it, and, were he free to chuse, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o’erlooks him in her busy search Of objects more illustrious in her view; And, occupy’d as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not hers, for he has prov’d them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, Whose pow’r is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heav’n unseen, And shows him glories yet to be reveal’d. . . . So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown’d in ancient song; not vex’d with care Or stain’d with guilt, beneficent, approv’d Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfill’d, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destin’d office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath a turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when call’d To dress a Sofa with the flow’rs of verse, I play’d awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light task; but soon, to please her more Whom flow’rs alone I knew would little please, Let fall th’ unfinish’d wreath, and rov’d for fruit; Rov’d far, and gather’d much: some harsh, ’tis true, Pick’d from the thorns and briars of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth, Insipid else, and sure to be despis’d. But all is in his hand whose praise I seek. In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. ’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre, To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation—prosper even mine.

(excerpt) ’Tis morning; and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon: while the clouds That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood.  His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev’ry herb and ev’ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile.  With eye askance I view the muscular proportion’d limb Transform’d to a lean shank.  The shapeless pair, As they design’d to mock me, at my side Take step for step; and as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaster’d wall, Prepost’rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, And coarser grass upspearing o’er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, And fledg’d with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness.  There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hung’ring man Fretful if unsupply’d, but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-pac’d swain’s delay. He from the stack carves out th’ accustom’d load, Deep-plunging, and again deep plunging oft His broad keen knife into the solid mass; Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no needless care Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanc’d weight. . . . ’Tis liberty alone that gives the flow’r Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, And we are weeds without it.  All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of discov’ry, and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man’s noble form. Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez’d By public exigence till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free! My native nook of earth! . . . But there is yet a liberty unsung By poets, and by senators unprais’d, Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers Of earth and hell confed’rate take away. A liberty, which persecution, fraud, Oppression, prisons, have no pow’r to bind, Which whoso tastes can be enslav’d no more. ’Tis liberty of heart, deriv’d from heav’n, Bought with HIS blood who gave it to mankind, And seal’d with the same token.  It is held By charter, and that charter sanction’d sure By th’ unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God.  His other gifts All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, And are august, but this transcends them all.

(excerpt) Hark! ’tis the twanging horn! o’er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks, News from all nations lumb’ring at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destin’d inn: And having dropp’d th’ expected bag—pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indiff’rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeks, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charg’d with am’rous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh th’ important budget! usher’d in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awak’d? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d, Snore to the murmurs of th’ Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plum’d And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh—I long to know them all; I burn to set th’ imprison’d wranglers free, And give them voice and utt’rance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev’ning in. Not such his ev’ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez’d And bor’d with elbow-points through both his sides, Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquility and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev’n critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? . . . Oh Winter! ruler of th’ inverted year, Thy scatter’d hair with sleet like ashes fill’d, Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring’d with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg’d by storms along its slipp’ry way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st, And dreaded as thou art!  Thou hold’st the sun A pris’ner in the yet undawning East, Short’ning his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy West; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering at short notice, in one group, The family dispers’d, and fixing thought, Not less dispers’d by day-light and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb’d retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know. No ratt’ling wheels stop short before these gates; No powder’d pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow’r, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos’d, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath that cannot fade, or flow’rs that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet’s or historian’s page, by one Made vocal for th’ amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume clos’d, the customary rites Of the last meal commence.  A Roman meal; Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak’s domestic shade, Enjoy’d, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note.  Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with mem’ry’s pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have ’scap’d, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv’rance found Unlook’d for, life preserv’d and peace restor’d, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. Oh ev’nings worthy of the Gods! exclaim’d The Sabine bard.  Oh ev’nings, I reply, More to be priz’d and coveted than yours, As more illumin’d, and with nobler truths, That I and mine, and those we love, enjoy.

(excerpt) England, with all thy faults, I love thee still My country! and while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain’d to love thee.  Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deform’d With dripping rains, or wither’d by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flow’r, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia’s groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bow’rs. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thund’rer there.  And I can feel Thy follies too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenc’d o’er With odors, and as profligate as sweet, Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In ev’ry clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children.  Praise enough To fill th’ ambition of a private man, That Chatham’s language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe’s great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honors, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter!  They have fall’n Each in his field of glory: one in arms, And one in council.  Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling victory that moment won, And Chatham, heart-sick of his country’s shame. They made us many soldiers.  Chatham still Consulting England’s happiness at home, Secur’d it by an unforgiving frown If any wrong’d her.  Wolfe, where’er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet’s force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved. Those suns are set.  Oh rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements, and despair of new. . . . There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know.  The shifts and turns, Th’ expedients and inventions multiform To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Thought apt, yet coy, and difficult to win— T’ arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit, ’till he has pencill’d off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to dispose his copies with such art That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less, Than by the labor and the skill it cost, Are occupations of the poet’s mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels th’ anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire. Such joys has he that sings.  But ah! not such, Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find There least amusement where he found the most. But is amusement all?  studious of song, And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; But where are its sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdu’d? whose heart reclaim’d By rigour, or whom laugh’d into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tam’d: Laugh’d at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands. The pulpit, therefore (and I name it, fill’d With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing) The pulpit (when the sat’rist has at last, Strutting and vap’ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no proselyte) I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar pow’rs) Must stand acknowledg’d, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard, Support and ornament of virtue’s cause.

(excerpt) Thou know’st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur’d up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace Has slacken’d to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern’d The distant plough slow-moving, and beside His lab’ring team, that swerv’d not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish’d to a boy! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er, Conducts the eye along its sinuous course Delighted.  There, fast rooted in his bank, Stand, never overlook’d, our fav’rite elms, That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream That as with molten glass inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow’r, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the list’ning ear, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which daily view’d Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years. Praise justly due to those that I describe. . . . But though true worth and virtue, in the mild And genial soil of cultivated life Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft.  In proud and gay And gain-devoted cities; thither flow, As to a common and most noisome sewer, The dregs and fæculence of ev’ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness.  Rank abundance breeds In gross and pamper’d cities sloth and lust, And wantonness and gluttonous excess. In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond th’ atchievement of successful flight. I do confess them nurs’ries of the arts, In which they flourish most: where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim’d The fairest capital of all the world, By riot and incontinence the worst. There, touch’d by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees All her reflected features.  Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham’s eloquence to marble lips. . . . God made the country, and man made the town: What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten’d in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only ye can shine, There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wand’rer in their shades.  At eve The moon-beam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music.  We can spare The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs Scar’d, and th’ offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth, It plagues your country.  Folly such as your’s, Grac’d with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, which enemies could ne’er have done, Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain! Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near, That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above!

Oh happy shades—to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that cannot rest, agree! This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. But fix'd unalterable care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'rywhere, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs. The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley, musing, slow; They seek, like me, the secret shade, But not, like me, to nourish woe! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.

Toll for the brave— The brave! that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side; A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave— Brave Kempenfelt is gone, His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle, No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock; His sword was in the sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with your cup The tears that England owes; Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charg'd with England's thunder, And plough the distant main; But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Must plough the wave no more.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief— Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes That humour interpos'd too often makes; All this still legible in mem'ry's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.— But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell—time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic shew of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft— Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

1 God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. 2 Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sov'reign will. 3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. 4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. 5 His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding ev'ry hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow'r. 6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain.