English

From all, who dwell on earth below,
Let praise to God unceasing flow;
Your breath in praise employ:
Spread wide your Maker's name around,
Till heav'n shall echo back the sound—
The gen'ral burst of joy.

Said the Earth to the Stars, ‘Oh my sisters,
Fellow-travellers through this dread immensity,
Send a voice to my spirit and declare,
If, serenely as ye smile on me, and fair,
Ye are dwellings for all miseries, like me?

‘Oh tell me if in you, my glorious sisters,
Rules a tyrant like the one enthronèd here?
If death has ever enter'd in your climes,
And Suffering, and Calamity, and Crimes
Ever rob you of the children that you rear?

‘Oh tell me if in you, my myriad sisters,
The weak are ever trampled by the strong?

“Is there a knight or squire who dare
Dive into yonder abyss?
A golden goblet lies buried there,
Above it the waters boil and hiss.
Whoever presents it again to my sight
Shall keep it for ever: I grant him the right.”

Thus spake the King, and speaking, hurled
The cup from the cliff where he stood,
Into the seething gulf which whirled
Far below in Charybdis' flood.
“Again, I demand, is there any so bold
As to search in these depths for my goblet of gold?”

Never a word spake Knight or Squire,

On Dionysius Damon glared;
A dagger his mantle contains:
The guardians threw him in chains.
“Varlet, for whom was this dagger prepared?”
The Tyrant exclaimed, “What hast thou dared?
“To remove the Tyrant I meant!”
“On the cross thou shalt repent!”

And he straightly replied: “I am ready to die,
For life I do not pray;
Yet would I crave delay.
For three days' grace I would humbly apply
My sister's marriage to sanctify;
A hostage I leave my friend;
Slay him if I fail to attend.”

When somebody comes a-tripping down,
The winds all at play with her hair and gown;
The very same winds that are just too lazy
To lift a leaf or to swing a daisy,—
Then hold your heart with might and main;
She is crossing the meadow, “Sweet-thing” Jane.

She always chooses the cool of the day,
The way down to Lovetown, that 's her way;
She knows very well (what is well worth knowing)
There 's only one road—the road she is going;
And she knows she is sweet as a rose in the rain,
And she knows—she will tell you, “Sweet-thing” Jane.

Rise, Freemen! rise; the call goes forth,
Attend the high command—
Obedience to the word of God
Throughout this guilty land.

Rise, free the slave; oh! burst his chains,
And cast his fetters down;
Let virtue be your country's pride,
Her diadem and crown.

Then shall the day at length arrive,
When all shall equal be,
And Freedom's banner, waving high,
Proclaim that all are free.

Begone, unbelief! my Savior is near,
And for my relief will surely appear;
By pray'r let me wrestle, and he will perform;
With Christ in the vessel, I smile at the storm.

Though dark be my way, since he is my guide,
'Tis mine to obey, 'tis his to provide;
Tho' cisterns be broken, and creatures all fail,
The word he has spoken shall surely prevail.

Why should I complain of want or distress,
Temptation or pain? he told me no less;
The heirs of salvation, I know from his word,
Through much tribulation must follow their Lord.

Though streaming stormes, force ship to harbor haste,
To whom the Seas with rigor great threates wrack:
Whose cables cut, and ankers worne to waste,
Is forste streeke sayle in her so great a lack.
When Neptvne yet with Septer plaste in hande,
Shall calme the furious rigour of the Flood:
This Shyp repayrde, may safely sayle to lande,
Nought dreading Eolvs breth, that her withstood.
So H. doth hope his Howlke such porte shall finde,
When stormes be past, as will content his minde.

What though no fame the poet gains?
Does fame deserve his care?
Not unrewarded are his pains,
If he shall please the fair.

To Delia my lays belong,
Their constant theme is love;
Enough if she attend the song,
If she the theme approve.

'Twas love that made me first a bard,
From love my numbers flow,
Nor claim I ought, as my reward,
That Delia can't bestow.

How sweet from her a look a smile,
When once my labour's o'er;
It soothes the mem'ry of past toil,
And animates to more.

When pious Gratitude recounts its store,
From Sorrow's gloom and dark Deception free,
With meek submission, humbly to adore,
Oh gentle Clara , will I think on thee!
Thy courteous image, now methinks I see,
Cheerful Goodness—gentle and serene,
A claims no preference, yet adorns the scene!—
To form'd each ruthless passion to reprove,
And suits the season of celestial Love.