A HYMN TO RESIGNATION.
Reading edition
Oh! from that high and holy sphere, Where, thron'd in light, you dwell, Sweet maid, in all thy charms descend To gild my humble cell. Thy presence heightens every bliss, Draws out the sting of wo, Allures to brighter worlds above, And makes a heaven below. The pilgrim, roving all night long, Through dreary tracts forlorn, Oft sighs, oppress'd, and sighs again, The wish'd return of morn. As I in sorrow's gloomy night, Condemn'd awhile to stray, Look up with ardent eye to heav'n, And ask the devious way, O! screen me from surrounding ills, Let dangers ne'er annoy, The arrow that in darkness flies, Commissioned to destroy. Inconstant as the idle wind, That sports with every flow'r, When earthly friends by turns drop off, Friends of our brighter hour; Do thou, mild cherub, fill my breast, With all that's good and wise, Snatch me from earth's tumultuous scenes, And lead me to the skies. There kindred spirits ne'er deceive; Soul mingles there with soul; Sweet Sympathy and Truth are there, And Love cements the whole. More welcome to this sorrowing heart, Oh, pensive queen, thy strain, Than all the joys mad Riot gives To sooth the clamorous train. You shade the poor man's evening walk With wreaths of endless green, And, when the lamp of life declines, You tend the last dread scene. Oh! then from heaven, thy holy sphere, Where, thron'd in light you dwell, Come, Resignation, sainted maid, And gild my humble cell.
TO THE EDITORS OF THE RURAL MAGAZINE.
The following little poem was written by John Byron, a minor English poet, who died at Manchester, in the year 1763, aged 72. In his 23d year, he wrote the beautiful pastoral of Colin and Phebe, on which his poetick reputation is principally founded. It appeared in the eighth volume of the Spectator; and many of your readers will remember, what has been so generally known and admired.
My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! &c.
The subjoined extract, it is believed, is not so familiar; and for that reason, as you must doubtless wish to exclude from your poetick corner whatever is trite and common-place, whether professedly original, or selected from old or distant writers, it is hoped, though a small matter, it will not prove altogether unacceptable.
I.