Song Of Praise. Imitation Of The 148Th Psalm.

A poem by John Clare

Warm into praises, kindling muse,
With grateful transport raise thy views
To Him, who moves this ball,
Who whirls, in silent harmony,
The earth, the ocean, air, and sky--
O praise the Lord of all!

Ye angels--hymning round your king,
Praise Him who gives you power to sing,
Ye hosts--with raptures burn;
Who station'd you in bliss, proclaim!
Oh, bless your benefactor's name,
Betokening kind return.

Ye spreading heavens, arching high,
Ye scenes unknown beyond the sky,
Creation's Maker own:
"Let there be light "--your Ruler said;
And instant your blue curtain spread
In triumph round his throne.

Thou moon, meek guardian of the night,
Ye planets of inferior light,
Ye lamps of rays divine,
Ye suns--dart forth your splendid rays
To Him who metes your nights and days,
And suffers you to shine.

O praise His name, His mercy bless,
Ye poor, like me, in 'whelmed distress;
O hail protection given:
When sin and sorrow die away,--
Our hopes His promise still shall stay
Of recompensing heaven.

Thunders that fright the trembling ground,
Ye forked lightnings, flashing round,
Or quench'd in 'whelming shower;
While skies in vollied rolls are rent,--
While nature pauses, silent bent,--
Adore Almighty Power.

Ye minstrel birds, wild woodland's charms,
Whose song each child of nature warms
With your lov'd haunts in view;
From Him you borrow'd every note,
Then open wide your chanting throat
To give the tribute due.

Mis-shapen germs of parent earth,
Waiting, dependent for your birth,
The sun's enlivening rays;
Emerging from your silent tomb,
To join the hailing myriads, come,
And kindle into praise.

Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips, delicately pale,
Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendor, speak!
Who deck'd you with that ruddy streak,
And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride array'd,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate, in vain,
And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod;
Open to spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker, and my God!

Thou humble clothing of the trees,
Moss, in whose meanness genius sees
A world of wonders shine;
Put on your satin-smoothening green,
And let your Maker's power be seen,
And workmanship divine.

Creation's universal round,
That beat the air, or press the ground,
Or plough the seas, the same,
All join in chorusing accord,
Exalt your Maker and your Lord,
And praise His holy name:

Till o'er this sin-consuming world
Destruction's fated doom is hurl'd,
And ruin's self decays;
Then, freed from sin and Adam's fall,
All join, and hail Him Lord of all,
In everlasting praise.

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