10

POET'S PRAYER.

Though meant with filial love to be survey'd, Is nothing to thyself;-the shadow of a shade.

If thou hast given me, more than unto some, A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair, Which sometimes renders admiration dumb,

From consciousness that words cannot declare The beauty thou hast scatter'd everywhere;

O grant that this may lead me still, through all Thy works, to Thee! nor prove a treach'rous snare Adapted those affections to enthral

Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call,

I would not merely dream my life away

In fancied rapture, or imagin'd joy;

Nor that a perfum'd flower, a dew- gemm'd spray, A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy, Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ; So far alone as nature's charms can lead

To Thee who fram'd them all, and can destroy, Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed,

Grant me to gaze and love, and thus Thy works to read.

But while from one extreme thy power may keep My erring frailty, O preserve me still From dulness! nor let cold indifference steep My senses in oblivion: if the thrill