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William Cowper (1731-1800)

To contrite hearts bestow;

HE Lord will happiness divine

Then tell me, gracious God, is mine A contrite heart, or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;

If aught is felt, 'tis only pain
To find I cannot feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love thee, if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few--
I fain would strive for more-
But when I cry, My strength renew,'
Seem weaker than before.

Thy saints are comforted, I know,
And love thy house of prayer;
I therefore go where others go,
But find no comfort there.

Oh make this heart rejoice, or ache; Decide this doubt for me;

And if it be not broken, break,

And heal it, if it be.

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 burn, 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 the 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.'

Joseph Addison (1672-1719)

HE spacious firmament on high,

THE

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

The 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 burn,
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 the 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.'