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Lettered inside image: "87 | His wrath inflamed? his tenderness on fire; | Like soft, smooth oil, outblazing other fires? | Can prayer, can praise avert it?--THOU! my all, | My theme, my inspiration, and my crown! | My strength in age, my rise in low estate! | My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth!--my world! | My light in darkness, and my life in death! | My boast through time! bliss through eternity-- | Eternity, too short to speak thy praise! | Or fathom thy profound of love to man-- | To man of men the meanest, even to me! | My sacrifice! my GOD! what things are these! | What then art THOU? by what name shall I call THEE? | Knew I the name devout archangels use, | Devout archangels should the name enjoy | By me unrivall'd; thousands more sublime, | None half so dear as that, which, though unspoke | Still glows at heart: O how omnipotence | *Is lost in love! thou great PHILANTHROPIST! Father of angels! but the friend of man! | Like Jacob, fondest of the younger born! | THOU! Who didst save him, snatch the smoking brand | From out the flames, and quench it in thy blood; | How art thou pleased by bounty to distress! | To make us groan beneath our gratitude, | Too big for birth! to favour and confound; | To challenge, and to distance all return! | Lavish of love, stupendous heights to soar | And leave praise panting in the distant vale! | Thy right too great defrauds THEE of thy due;"; Lettered on verso, inside image: "88 | And sacrilegious our sublimest song: | But since the naked will obtains thy smile, | Beneath this monument of praise unpaid, | And future life symphonious to my strain, | That noblest hymn to heaven! for ever lie | Intomb'd my fear of death! and every fear, | The dread of every evil, but thy frown. | Whom see I yonder, so demurely smile? | Laughter a labour, and might break their rest. | Ye quietists, in homage to the skies! | Serene! of soft address! who mildly made | An unobtrusive tender of your hearts, | Abhorring violence! who halt indeed, | *But for the blessing wrestle not with heaven! | Think you my song too turbulent? too warm? | Are passions then the pagans of the soul? | Reason alone baptized--alone ordain'd | To touch things sacred?--oh for warmer still! | Guilt chills my zeal, and age benumbs my powers; | Oh for an humbler heart, and prouder song! | THOU! my much-injured theme! with that soft eye | Which melted o'er doom'd Salem, deign to look | Compassion to the coldness of my breast; | And pardon to the winter in my strain! | Oh ye cold-hearted, frozen formalists! | On such a theme 'tis impious to be calm; | Passion is reason, transport temper, here. | Shall heaven, which gave us ardour, and has shewn | Her own for man so strongly, not disdain | What smooth emollients in theology,"; center right: "in & s | WB"; lower left: "Pubd. June 1st. 1797, by R. Edwards, No. 142 New Bond Street"