The Lord my pasture shall prepare And feed me with a shepherd’s care; His presence shall my wants supply And guard me with a watchful eye; My noonday walks He shall attend And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint Or on the thirsty mountain pant, To fertile vales and dewy meads My weary, wandering steps He leads, Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread, With gloomy horrors overspread, My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, For Thou, O Lord, art with me still; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds, I stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile; The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden greens and herbage crowned, And streams shall murmur all around.
The Spacious Firmament
The Spacious Firmament on high, With all the blue Ethereal Sky, And spangled Heav'ns, a Shining Frame, Their great Original proclaim: Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's Pow'r display, And publishes to every Land The Work of an Almighty Hand.
Soon as the Evening Shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous Tale, And nightly to the list'ning Earth Repeats the Story of her Birth: Whilst all the Stars that round her burn, And all the Planets, in their turn, Confirm the Tidings as they rowl, And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole. What though, in solemn Silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial Ball? What tho' nor real Voice nor Sound Amid their radiant Orbs be found?
In Reason's Ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious Voice, For ever singing, as they shine, The Hand that made us is Divine.
To Mr. Dryden
How long, great Poet, shall thy sacred lays Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise? Can eneither injuries of time, or age, Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage? No so thy Ovid in his exile wrote, Grief chill'd his breast,and check'd his rising thought: Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays The Roman genius in its last decays. Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, And second youth is kindled in thy breast; Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known, And England boasts of riches not her own; Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty, And Horace wonders at himself in thee. Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle In smoother numbers, and a clearer style; And Juvenal, instructed in thy page, Edges his satire, and improves his rage, Thy copy casts a fairer light on all, And still out-shines, the bright original. Now Ovid boasts th' advanage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show How thy own laurel first began to grow: How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods. O may'st thou still the noble talk prolong, Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song: Then may we wondering read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams; Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold: How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell.
