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Scar'd at thy frown terrifick fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperle, and with them go
The summer friend, the flatı’ring foe;
By vain Prosperity receiv'd,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom, in fable garb array’d,
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy , filent maid,
With leaden eye that loves the ground,
Still on thy folemn steps attend,
Warm Charity, the gen’ral friend,
With Justice, to herself fevere,
And Pity, dropping soft the fadly-pleasing tear.

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess! lay thy chaltning hand,
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad
Nor circled with the vengeful band,
(As by the impious thou art feen,)
With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's fun'ral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, o Goddels! wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophick train be there,
To soften, not to wound my

Thy gen'rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive;
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel, and know myself a man.

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Bon diesem tvůrdigen, und von Seiten des Seiftes und Herzens gleich schågbaren englischen Geistlichen, Dr. Ifaat Watts, geb. 1674, geft. 1748, hat man eine große Menges gr&ftentheils religisser, Gedichte. Alie Psalmen find von ihm überfekt, oder vielmehr in geistliche Lieder umgeformt, deren er noch aufferdem sehr viele, veranlafft durch biblische Stellen und durch den Jnhalt seiner Predigten, hinterlassen hat. Sie heiffen fåmtlich Hymnen, ob fie gleich &ußerft selten sich über den gemäßigten Ton and&chtiger Betrachs tung erheben. Mehr Poesie herrscht in denen, die unter die Rubrik lyrischer Gedichte gebracht find; aber auch diese find voller Ungleichheiten matter Stellen und ermús dender Wiederholungen. Nur der mangel an bessern engs lischen Religionsdichtern scheint ihm die Achtung erworben und gesichert zu haben, in der er noch immer unter seinen Landesleuten fieht. Hier ist eine seiner bessern und kürzern Dden.


Not from the dust my sorrows spring,
Nor drop my comfort from the lower skies;
Let all the baneful planets Shed
Their mingled curses on my head!
How vain their curses, if th’ Eternal King
Look thro' the clouds and bless me with his eyes!
Creatures with all their boasted sway
Are but his slaves and must obey;
They wait their orders from above,
And execute his word, the vengeance or the love.


'Tis by a warrant from his hand The gentler gales are bound to sleep;



The north wind blusters, and affumes command
Over the desert and the deep:
Old Boreas with his freezing pow'rs
Turns the earth iron, makes the ocean glass,
Arrefts the dancing riv'lets as they pass,
And chains them moreless to their shores:
The grazing ox lows to the gelid skies,
Walks o'er the marble meads with with’ring eyes,
Walks o'er the folid lakes, snuffs up the wind, and


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Fly to the polar world, my song,
And mourn the pilgrims there (a wretched

Seiz’d and bound in rigid chains,
A troop of statues on the Russian plains,
And life stands frozen in the purple veins,
Atheist, forbear! no more blaspheme;
God has a thousand terrors in his name,
A thousand armies at command,
Waiting the signal of his hand,
And magazines of frost, and magazines of fame.
Dress thee in steel to meet his wrath,
His sharp artillery from the north
Shall pierce thee to the loul, and shake thy mortal

Sublime on winter's rugged wings
He rides in arms along the sky,
And scatters fate on (wains and kings,
And flocks, and herds, and nations, die,
While impious lips profanely bold
Grow pale, and quiv’ring at his dreadful cold
Give their own blasphemies the lie.


The mischiefs that infeft the earth
When the hot Dogftar fires the realms on high,

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Drought and disease, and cruel dearth,
Are but the Aashes of a wrathful

From the incens'd divinity;
In vain our parching palates thirst,
For vital food in vain we cry,
And pant for vital breath;
The verdant fields are burnt to dust,
The fun has drunk the channels dry,
And all the air is death.
Ye scourges of our Maker's rod,
'Tis at his dread command, at his imperial

You deal your various plagues abroad.

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Hail, whirlwinds, hurricanes, and floods,
That all the leafy standards strip,
And bear down with a mighty sweep
The riches of the fields and honours of the

Storms that ravage o'er the deep
And kury millions in the waves,
Earthquakes that in midnight sleep
· Turn cities into heaps, and make our beds our gra.

While you dispense your mortal harms
'Tis the Creator's voice that sounds


loud alarms, When guilt with louder cries provokes a God to


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Let waves and thunders mix and foar;
Be Thou my God; and the whole world is

While thou art fov'reign, I'm secure;
I shall be rich till thou art poor;
For all I fear and all I wilh, heav'n, earth, and hell,

are thine!

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