HYMN

FOR THE USE OF THE

SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

[July, 1790.]

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r,
In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!

Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day;

And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy Sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear-but oh impart

To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of elder far than we,

What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And Babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines;

And be thy mercies show'r'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.*

STANZAS

On the late indecent Liberlies taken with the Remains of the great Milton--Anno 1790.

The sculptor'd stone shall show,

"With Paphian myrtle or with bays
'Parnassian on my brow.

"But I, or ere that season come,

'Escaped from every care,

Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
"And sleep securely there."

So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long

Note by the Editor. This Hymn was written at the request of the Rev. Janes Bean, then Vicar of Olney, to be sung by the children of the Sunday Schools of that town, after a Charity Sermon, preached at the Parish Church for their benefit, on Sunday, July 31, 1790.

Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas...At ego secura pace quiescam.

Milton in Manso.

HYMN

FOR THE USE OF THE

SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

[July, 1790.]

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r,
In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!

Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day;

And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy Sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear-but oh impart

To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of elder far than we,

What hope that at our heedless age
Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And Babes as wise as they.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,

(As Homer's Epic shows)

Compos'd of sweetest vernal flow'rs,
Without the aid of sun or show'rs,
For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain

Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied
Till rous'd to toil again.

What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should ev'ry maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of ev'ry hue
All in a moment fled!

As if a storm should strip the bow'rs
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs→
Each pocketting a shred.

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle fair
Who will not come to peck me bare

As bird of borrow'd feather,

And thanks, to One, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,

*Certain polters, while they were busied in baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and haring heard much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a present of their commodity, and of such other things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as follows:

PAY me my price, Potters! and I will sing,
Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted arm
Protect their oven; let the cups and all
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked
With good success, yield them both fair renown
And profit, whether in the market sold,

Or street, and let no strife ensue between us.
But, oh, ye Potters! if with shameless front
Ye falsify your promise, then I leave

No mischief uninvok'd t' avenge the wrong.
Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes come,
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread

*Note by the Editor. No Title is prefixed to this piece; but it appears to be a translation of one of the Ertygaupara of Homer, called Kavos, or The Furnace. The prefatory lines arc from the Greek of Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of Homer, ascribed to him.