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HE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
The spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th’ unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth ;
Whilst all the stars that round her bum,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,
“ The hand that made us is Divine."

Paraphrase on Psalm

XXIII.

HE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And gaard me with a watchful eye: My noon-day 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,
My weary, wandering steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscapes flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O God, 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,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

AIKEN,

Compassion.

AROUND the fire, one wintry night,

The farmer's rosy children sat; The fagot lent its blazing light,

And jokes went round, and careless chat;

When, hark ! a gentle hand they hear

Low tapping at the bolted door, And thus, to gain their willing ear,

A feeble voice was heard implore :

“ Cold blows the blast across the moor,

The sleet drives hissing in the wind; Yon toilsome mountain lies before

A dreary, treeless waste behind.

“My eyes are weak and dim with age,

No road, no path can I descry; And these poor rags ill stand the rage

Of such a keen, inclement sky.

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