And had _earth_, then, no joys? no native sweets, No happiness, that one who spoke the truth, Might call her own? She had, true native sweets, Indigenous delights, which up the Tree Of Holiness, embracing as they grew, Ascended, and bore fruit of Heavenly taste. _Pollok._ Lean not on _earth_; ’t will pierce thee to the heart: A broken reed at best, but oft a spear: On its sharp point peace bleeds, and hope expires. There’s nothing here but what as nothing weighs; The more our joy, the more we know it vain; And by success are tutored to despair. Nor is it only thus, but must be so. Who knows not this, though grey, is still a child; Loose then from _earth_ the grasp of fond desire, Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. _Young._ _Earth_, thou great footstool of our God Who reigns on high; thou fruitful source Of all our raiment, life, and food, Our house, our parent, and our nurse. Mighty stage of mortal scenes, Drest with strong and gay machines, Hung with golden lamps around, And flowery carpets spread the ground-- Thou bulky globe, prodigious map, That hangs unpillared in an empty space, While thy unwieldly weight hangs in the feeble air, Bless that Almighty word that fix’d and holds thee there. _Watts._ A puff of honour fills the mind, And yellow dust is solid good; Thus, like the ass of savage kind, We snuff the breezes of the wind, Or steal the serpent’s food. Could all the choirs That charms the poles But strike one doleful sound, ’T would be employed to mourn our souls; Souls that were formed of sprightly fires In floods of folly drowned. Souls made of glory seek a brutal joy; How they disclaim their heavenly birth, Melt their bright substance down with drossy _earth_, And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. _Watts._ There are wondrous things on the aged _earth_; ’tis speeding to its close; From the very heart of the prosperous world the prophet-thunder grows; And as this sphere whirls round and round upon its endless way, And as the laws of the universe from their boundless centres sway, From the everlasting hills of heaven look down a seraph-race, And gaze upon the mighty change that speaks aloud through space: With joy they hymn the Eternal, in whose embrace they live, And strike the harp to him who loves to pity and forgive.