The beauty of my native land Immortal love inspires; I burn, I burn with strong desires, And sigh and wait the high command. There glides the moon her shining way, And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. Upward my heart aspires: A thousand lamps of golden light, Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, Where all the happy minds resort! When will my Father's chariot come? Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, For ever see the mourner lie An exile of the sky, A prisoner of the ground? Descend, some shining servants from on high, Build me a hasty tomb; A grassy turf will raise my head; The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, And shed a sweet perfume. Here I put off the chains of death, My soul too long has worn: Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, Or tear to wet my urn. Raphael, behold me all undressed; Here gently lay this flesh to rest, Then mount and lead the path unknown. Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own. TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE. Great man, permit the muse to climb, And seat her at thy feet; Bid her attempt a thought sublime, And consecrate her wit. I feel, I feel the attractive force Of thy superior soul: My chariot flies her upward course, The wheels divinely roll. Now let me chide the mean affairs And mighty toil of men: How they grow gray in trifling cares, Or waste the motion of the spheres Upon delights as vain! 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 charm the poles But strike one doleful sound, 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, In floods of folly drowned. Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; How they disclaim their heavenly birth, Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, And hate to be refined from that impure alloy. Oft has thy genius roused us hence With elevated song, Bid us renounce this world of sense, Bid us divide the immortal prize With the seraphic throng: 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' But flesh, the unmanageable beast, Resists the pity of thine eyes, And music of thy tongue. Then let the worms of grovelling mind Round the short joys of earthly kind In restless windings roam; Howe hath an ample orb of soul, Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, Where love, the centre and the pole, Completes the heaven at home. AMBROSE PHILIPS.