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 candour 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.