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But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,
Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in field of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiades shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountPARAPHRASE ON 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 My weary, wandering steps he leads: Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 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, oh 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, With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, And streams shall murmur all around.
How are thy servants bless'd, oh 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 pass'd unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweetend every soil,
Made every region please;
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.
How, with affrighted eyes,
In all its horrors rise.
Confusion dwelt on every face,
And fear in every heart; When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs,
O’ercame the pilot's art.
Yet then from all my griefs, oh lord!
Thy mercy set me free;
My soul took hold on thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave;
Nor impotent to save.
The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to thy will;
At thy command was still.
Thy goodness I'll adore ;
And humbly hope for more.
My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be ;
Shall join my soul to thee.
MATTHEW PRIOR. 1664-1721.
As the chameleon, who is known To have no colours of his own, But borrows from his neighbour's hue His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight, As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him and his heirs male ; So the young 'squire, when first he comes From country school to Will's or Tom's, And equally, in truth, is fit To be a statesman or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down, Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad, Admits him in among the gang; They jest, reply, dispute, harangue: He acts and talks as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colours which they lend him.
Thus, merely as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances.
If, haply, he the sect pursues That read and comment upon news, He takes up their mysterious face, He drinks his coffee without lace;
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
Or if it be his fate to meet
PROTOGENES AND APELLES.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame,