A SONG TO CREATING WISDOM. PART I. ETERNAL Wisdom, thee we praise, Thee the creation sings; With thy loud name, rocks, hills, and seas, Place me on the bright wings of day, With what amaze shall I survey The wonders thou hast done? Thy hand how wide it spread the sky, Ting'd with a blue of heavenly dye, There thou hast bid the globes of light PART II. DOWNWARD I turn my wondring eyes Those under regions of the skies The noisy winds stand ready there Thy orders to obey, With sounding wings they sweep the air, There, like a trumpet, loud and strong, On the thin air, without a prop, PART III. Now to the earth I bend my song, How did his wondrous skill array Tall oaks for future navies grow, The bleating flocks his pasture feeds: That bellow through the Lindian meads, PART IV. WE see the Thames caress the shores, While angry Severn swells and roars, The rolling mountains of the deep Amidst thy watry kingdoms, Lord, And scaly monsters, at thy word, PART V. THY glories blaze all nature round, Infinite strength, and equal skill, Shine through the worlds abroad, Our souls with vast amazement fill, And speak the builder God. But the sweet beauties of thy grace Our softer passions move; Pity divine in Jesus' face We see, adore, and love! GOD'S ABSOLUTE DOMINION. LORD, when my thoughtful soul surveys Commission'd by my Father's will, The sun is all in darkness lost, Lo, the Norwegians near the polar sky The vital flame touch'd with a strange supply, Rekindles, for the God of life is nigh; He bids the vital flood in wonted circles flow. Cold steel expos'd to northern air, Drinks the meridian fury of the midnight bear, And burns the' unwary stranger there. Enquire, my soul, of ancient fame, Look back two thousand years, and see Once to his court the God of Israel came, Hence from my heart, ye idols, flee, No more my lips shall sacrifice To chance and nature, tales and lies: Creatures without a God can yield me no supplies. What is the sun, or what the shade, Or frosts, or flames, to kill or save? His favour is my life, his lips pronounce me dead; And as his awful dictates bid, Earth is my mother, or my grave. |