stood?—The same eternity Hath gone before him, and is yet to come; His past is not of longer span than ours, Though myriads of ages intervened; For who can add to what has neither sum, Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end? Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind? Who can unlock the secrets of the high? In speculations of an altitude Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. Who can apply the futile argument Of finite beings to infinity?

He might as well compress the universe Into the hollow compass of a gourd, Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale Drink up the sea it swims in!—Can the less Contain the greater? or the dark obscure Infold the glories of meridian day? What does philosophy impart to man But undiscovered wonders?—Let her soar Even to her proudest heights—to where she caught The soul of Newton and of Socrates, She but extends the scope of wild amaze And admiration. All her lessons end In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths.

Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew To raise his mind excursive to the heights Of abstract contemplation, as he sits On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd The goodly prospect; he beholds the God Throned in the west, and his reposing ear Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake, Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. Go with the cotter to his winter fire, Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, For his snug hearth, and all his little joys: Hear him compare his happier lot with his Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light; Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, And clasps his shivering hands; or overpowered, Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise And glowing gratitude,—he turns to bless, With honest warmth, his Maker and his God! And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred In want and labour, 

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