426 MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. Christian in, the family and the closet, nor loth she put off any part of that glorious profession at court. I have been favoured with some -of the fruits of her retired meditations, and as I have long had the happiness of her acquaintance, I dare pronounce that she lives what she writes. It so happens at present, that I can give you a' taste of her piety and her acquaintance with the muses together, for I have had leave to transcribe three or four copies with which I have been much entertained, and I am persuaded you will thank me for the entertainment they give you." I.-4 Rural Meditation. HERE in the tuneful groves and flow'ry fields, Nature a thousand various beauties yields: The daisy and tall cowslip we behold Array'd iu snowy white, or freckled gold. The verdant prospect cherishes our sight, Affording joy uitmix'd, and calm delight; The forest-walks and venerable shade, Wide - spreading lawns, bright rills, and silent glade, With'a religious awe our souls inspire, And to the heav'ns our raptur'd thoughts aspire, To himwho sits iu majesty on high, Who turn'd the starry arches of the sky ; Whose word ordain'd the silverThames to flow, Rais'd all the hills, and laid the vallies low; Who taught the nightingale in shades to sing, And bid the sky -lark warble on the wing.; Makes the young steer, obedient, till the land, And lowing heifers own the milker's hand ;.. Calms the rough sea, and stills the raging wind, And rulesthe passions of the human mind. 2.A Penitential Thought. CAN 1 then grieve for ev'ry wretch's woe, And weep if I but hear a tale of sorrow ? Say, Can I share in ev'ry one's affliction, Yet still remain thus stupid to my own ? Is then my heart to all the world beside Softer than melting wax or summer snow, But to myself harder than adamant? Can 1 behold the ruin sin has made, And feel God's image in my soul defac'd, Nor heave a sigh, nor drop a pitying tear, At my sad fate, nor lift my eyes to heav'n For aid against the flatt'ries of the world, The wiles of Satan, and the joys of sense ? Give me, ye springs, O give me all your streams That I may weep ; nor thus with stupid gaze Behold my ruin, like a wretch inchanted, Whose faculties are bound with pow'rful charms, To some accursed spot of earth confin'd. Give me, ye gentle winds, your balmy breath To heave my bosom with continued sighs. Teach me, ye wood-doves, your complaining note, Te mourn my fall, to mourn my rocky heart,
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