II.— COMMON GRACES.

Is nature in thee too spiritless, Ignoble, impotent, and dead, To prize her love and loveliness The more for being thy daily bread? And art thou one of that vile crew Which see no splendour in the sun, Praising alone the good that's new, Or over, or not yet begun? And has it dawn'd on thy dull wits That love warms many as soft a nest, That, though swathed round with benefits, Thou art not singularly blest? And fail thy thanks for gifts divine, The common food of many a heart, Because they are not only thine? Beware lest in the end thou art Cast for thy pride forth from the fold, Too good to feel the common grace Of blissful myriads who behold For evermore the Father's face.