ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.127
Knowing our frame, remembers man is duſt.
His ſpirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the firſt wiſh to better hopes inclin'd;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the ſmoaking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the ſofteſt cry,
His grace deſcends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a ſilent tear,
And ſighs are incenſe from a heart ſincere.
Such are the vows, the ſacrifice I give;
Accept the vow, and bid the ſuppliant live:
From each terreſtrial bondage ſet me free;
Still every wiſh that centers not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain diſquiets ceaſe,
And point my path to everlaſting peace.
If the ſoft hand of winning pleaſure leads
By living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,
