Who all night long unwearied sing
High praises to the eternal King.

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept,
And hast refreshed me whilst I slept;
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall
wake,

I may of endless light partake.

Lord, I my vows to thee renew; Disperse my sins as morning dew; Guard my first springs of thought and will,

And with thyself my spirit fill.

Direct, control, suggest, this day,
All I design, or do, or say;
That all my powers, with all their might,
In thy sole glory may unite.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise him, all creatures here below;
Praise him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free,
Whilst in the confidence of prayer,
My faith took hold on thee.

47

For, though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired
Obedient to thy will;

The sea, that roared at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore,
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;
And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

[1672-1719.]

HYMN.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!

Eternal Wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.

In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
Through burning climes I passed unhurt,

And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweetened every toil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed,
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep
In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt in every face,

And fear in every heart;

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM, XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye; My noonday walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
My weary, wandering steps he leads,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill;
For thou, O Lord, art with me still :
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my wants beguile, The barren wilderness shall smile,

O'ercame the pilot's art.

And streams shall murmur all around.

To trust in everything, or doubt of all. Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness? Take nature's path, and mad opinion's leave;

All states can reach it, and all heads conceive;

Obvious her goods, in no extremes they dwell;

There needs but thinking right and meaning well;

And mourn our various portions as we please,

Equal is common sense and common ease. Remember, man, "The Universal Cause Acts not by partial, but by general laws"; And makes what happiness we justly call

Subsist not in the good of one, but all. There's not a blessing individuals find, But some way leans and hearkens to the kind;

No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride,

No caverned hermit rests self-satisfied: Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend,

Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend: Abstract what others feel, what others think,

All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink: Each has his share; and who would more obtain

Shall find the pleasure pays not half the

49

ALLAN RAMSAY.

[1685-1758.] SONG.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,

Where heartsome with thee I have mony a day been:

To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more,

We'll maybe return to Lochaber no

more.

These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,

And not for the dangers attending on weir;

Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,

Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!

LEST men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.

The traveller, leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds.
Who with his tongue hath armies routed
Makes even his real courage doubted:
But flattery never seems absurd;
The flattered always takes your word:
Impossibilities seem just;

They take the strongest praise on trust.
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.

So very like a painter drew,
That every eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,

So just, the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colors laid,
To bloom restored the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength,
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length.
His honest pencil touched with truth,
And marked the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends, his practice failed;
Truth should not always be revealed;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two bustos, fraught with every grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He placed in view; resolved to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these,
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.
All things were set; the hour was

come,

His pallet ready o'er his thumb.
My lord appeared; and seated right
In proper attitude and light,
The painter looked, he sketched the
piece,

Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air;
"Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all their native fire;
The features fraught with sense and
wit,

You'll grant are very hard to hit ;
But yet with patience you shall view
As much as paint and art can do.
Observe the work." My lord replied:
'Till now I thought my mouth was
wide;

Besides, my nose is somewhat long;
Dear sir, for me, 't is far too young."

"Oh! pardon me," the artist cried, "In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like."

My lord examined it anew;
No looking-glass seemed half so true.

A lady came; with borrowed grace
He from his Venus formed her face.
Her lover praised the painter's art;
So like the picture in his heart!
To every age some charm he lent;
Even beauties were almost content.
Through all the town his art they praised;
His custom grew, his price was raised.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

JOHN BYROM.

JAMES THOMSON.

51

JOHN BYROM.

[1691-1763.]

CARELESS CONTENT.

I AM content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.

With good and gentle-humored hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain,
For Fortune's favor or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge nor up nor down;
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide;
For shining wealth or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they 're i' the wrong, and we're
i' the right,

I shun the rancors and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;

But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:
I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

I love my neighbor as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf

Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind.