by Mark Akenside (1721-1770)
Thron’d in the sun’s descending car,
What power unseen diffuseth far
This tenderness of mind?
What genius smiles on yonder flood?
What god, in whispers from the wood.
Bids every thought be kind?
O thou, whate’er thy awful name.
Whose wisdom our untoward frame
With social love restrains;
Thou, who by fair affection’s ties
Giv’st us to double all our joys
And half disarm our pains;
Let universal candor still.
Clear as yon heaven-reflecting rill.
Preserve my open mind;
Nor this nor that man’s crooked ways
One sordid doubt within me raise
To injure human kind.