Why does the Will of Heav'n ordain
A World so mix'd with woe;
Why pour down want, disease, and pain,
On wretched men below?
It was the Will of God to leave
Those ills for man to mend ;
Nor let Affliction pass the grave,
Before it found a friend.
It was by sympathetic ties,
The human race to bind;
To warm the heart, and fill the eyes,
With Pity for our kind.
Pity, that, like the heav'nly bow,
Ön darkest cloud doth shine,
And makes, with her celestial glow,
The human face-divine.
Where Mercy takes her custom'd stand
To bid her Flock rejoice,
"Tis there, with Grace extends the hand, There, Music tunes the voice.
And He, who speaks in Mercy's name,
No fiction needs, nor art,
The still small voice of Nature's claim,
Re-echoes thro' each heart.
Where Pity's frequent tear is shed,
There God is seen—is found;
Descends upon the hallow'd head,
And sheds a Glory round.
But Charity itself may fail,
Which doth not active prove,
Nor will the Pray'r of Faith avail
Without the Works of Love.
O sweeter than the fragrant flow'r
At Evening's dewy close,
The Will united with the Power,
To succour human woes!
And softer than the softest strain
Of Music to the ear,
That placid joy we give and gain
By Gratitude sincere!
The Husbandman goes forth afield;
What hopes his heart expand,
What calm delight his labours yield
A Harvest-from his hand.
A Hand that providently throws,
Not dissipates in vain :
How neat his field! how clean it grows!
What produce from cach grain!
The nobler husbandry of mind,
And culture of the heart,
Shall this, with Man, less favour find!
Less genuine joy impart ?
O no-your goodness strikes a root
That dies not, nor decays,
And future Life shall yield the fruit,
That blossoms now in praise.
The youthful hopes that here expand
Their green and tender leaves,
Shall spread a plenty o'er the land
In rich and yellow sheaves.
Thus, a small bounty well bestow'd
May perfect Heav'ns high plan;
First Daughter to the Love of God
Is Charity to Man.
Tis He who scatters blessings round,
Adores his Maker best:
For Him whose life was mercy-crown'd,
The Bed of Death is blest,
In this fair globe with ocean bound, And with the starry concave crown'd, In Earth below, in Heav'n above, How clear reveal'd that God is Love.
I seem to hear th' Angelic voice
Which bless'd the work, and bade, rejoice!
It vibrates still through ev'ry part,
And echoes through my grateful heart.
In God all creatures live and move,
Motes in the sun-beam of his love,
Vast Nature quickens in his sight,
Existence feels and new delight.
Through glad creation's ample range
Rolls on the wheel of ceaseless change:
The Phoenix renovates his breath,
Nor dreads destruction e'en in death.
From ashes of this World, sublime,
Beyond the reach of thought or time,
On wings of Faith and Hope he soars,
And Truth in Love eternally adores.
THE Harp, our glory once, but now our shame,
Follow'd my Country's fate, and slept without a name.
The Angel Friendship brush'd it with her wings,
Surpriz'd by sudden life, the trembling strings
Faintly, to Thee, gave forth one grateful strain,
Then sought the quiet of the Tomb again.
AT Athens erst an Altar stood inscribed
TO CLEMENCY: no god was there invoked,
Nor vow preferred to deprecate his irc,
But there the unhappy met, and with chaste rites
Hallowed the chosen spot. Thither they came,
And thence, well-pleased, departed, for their prayer
Was ne'er rejected, and the placid form
Of the mild POWER indulgent to their suit
Listened propitious. Simple were her rites
And pure. No incense fumed in clouds to heaven,
No pompous sacrifice, nor blood of kids
Profaned her modest altar, never bathed
Save with moist tears, nor incensed but with sighs.
Contiguous rose a grove whose umbrage brown
Engirted it around: the laurel there
And olive high o'er-arching, formed a shade.
Of never-fading verdure. Here unseen
The POWER presided, and her gifts alone
Bespoke the sacred inmate of the place:
O tender Pity! whose consoling voice
With gentle soothings heals the wounded heart;
O hallowed Altar, and O peaceful Grove,
My song shall ever hail you. Hapless they,
Who fostered by Prosperity, ne'er felt
The joy that thrills the heart, when some kind friend
Partakes our grief, and mingles with our own
The tear of warm affection!-
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