CHRISTOPHER SMART

His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce,

For all the pangs that rage ; Blest light still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom,

Th' Abishag of his age.

He sang of God the mighty source Of all things the stupendous force

On which all strength depends ; From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, All period, power, and enterprise

Commences, reigns, and ends.

Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said

To Moses ; while earth heard in dread,

And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All Nature, without voice or sound,

Replied, O LORD, THOU ART.

The world, the clustering spheres, He made; The glorious light, the soothing shade,

Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; The multitudinous abyss, Where Secrecy remains in bliss,

And Wisdom hides her skill.

The pillars of the Lord are seven,

Which stand from earth to topmost heaven;

His Wisdom drew the plan ; His Word accomplished the design, From brightest gem to deepest mine;

From Christ enthroned, to Man.

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