Still on thy banks so gaily green May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o’er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown’d with toil, And hearts resolved and hands prepared The blessings they enjoy to guard. CHRISTOPHER SMART 1722-1770 _465._ _Song to David_ Sublime--invention ever young, Of vast conception, tow’ring tongue To God th’ eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrivall’d royalty of thought O’er meaner strains supreme. 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. For Adoration all the ranks Of Angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With God’s good poor, which, last and least In man’s esteem, Thou to Thy feast, O blessèd Bridegroom, bidd’st! For Adoration, David’s Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants. For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home, And on His olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God’s humility, Within his Saviour’s church. Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet, Hermon’s fragrant air: Sweet is the lily’s silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers’ smell That watch for early prayer. Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o’er sleeping innocence; Sweet, when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician’s ardour beats, While his vague mind’s in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive.