“The Hand that made us is Divine”.

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When all Thy mercies, O my God,

My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I’m lost

In wonder, love and praise.

Thy Providence my life sustained,

And all my wants redressed,

While in the silent womb I lay,

And hung upon the breast.

To all my weak complaints and cries

Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learned

To form themselves in prayer.

Unnumbered comforts to my soul

Thy tender care bestowed,

Before my infant heart conceived

From Whom those comforts flowed.

When in the slippery paths of youth

With heedless steps I ran,

Thine arm unseen conveyed me safe,

And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,

It gently cleared my way;

And through the pleasing snares of vice,

More to be feared than they.

O how shall words with equal warmth

The gratitude declare,

That glows within my ravished heart?

But thou canst read it there.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss

Hath made my cup run o’er;

And, in a kind and faithful Friend,

Hath doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ;

Nor is the last a cheerful heart

That tastes those gifts with joy.

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou

With health renewed my face;

And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,

Revived my soul with grace.

Through every period of my life

Thy goodness I’ll pursue

And after death, in distant worlds,

The glorious theme renew.

When nature fails, and day and night

Divide Thy works no more,

My ever grateful heart, O Lord,

Thy mercy shall adore.

Through all eternity to Thee

A joyful song I’ll raise;

For, oh, eternity’s too short

To utter all Thy praise!

An Account Of The Greatest English Poets

Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request

A short account of all the Muse possest,

That, down from Chaucer’s days to Dryden’s Times,

Have spent their Noble Rage in British Rhimes;

Without more Preface, wrote in Formal length,

To speak the Undertakers want of strength,

I’ll try to make they’re sev’ral Beauties known,

And show their Verses worth, tho’ not my Own.

Long had our dull Fore-Fathers slept Supine,

Nor felt the Raptures of the Tuneful Nine;

Till Chaucer first, the merry Bard, arose;

And many a Story told in Rhime and Prose.

But Age has Rusted what the Poet writ,

Worn out his Language, and obscur’d his Wit:

In vain he jests in his unpolish’d strain,

And tries to make his Readers laugh in vain.

Old Spencer next, warm’d with Poetick Rage,

In Antick Tales amus’d a Barb’rous Age;

An Age that yet uncultivate and Rude,

Where-e’er the Poet’s Fancy led, pursu’d

Through pathless Fields, and unfrequented Floods,

To Dens of Dragons and Enchanted Woods.

But now the Mystick Tale, that pleas’d of Yore,

Can Charm an understanding Age no more;

The long-spun Allegories fulsom grow,

While the dull Moral lies too plain below.

We view well-pleas’d at distance all the sights

Of Arms and Palfreys, Battle’s, Fields, and Fights,

And Damsels in Distress, and Courteous Knights.

But when we look too near, the Shades decay,

And all the pleasing Lan-skip fades away.

Great Cowley then (a mighty Genius) wrote;

His Turns too closely on the Reader press;

He more had pleas’d us, had he pleas’d us less.

One glitt’ring Thought no sooner strikes our Eyes

With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.

As in the Milky way a shining White,

O’er-flows the Heav’ns, with one continu’d Light;

That not a single Star can shew his Rays,

Whilst joyntly all promote the Common-Blaze.

Pardon, Great Poet, that I dare to name

Th’ unnumber’d Beauties of thy Verse with blame;