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Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
Waller. Died in 1687.
O'The paths of peace are trod ;
! LEARN that it is only by the lowly
paths of peace are trod; If thou wouldst keep thy garments white and holy,
Walk humbly with thy God.
The man with earthly wisdom high uplifted
Is in God's fight a fool ;
Sits lowest in Christ's school.
The lowly spirit God hath consecrated
As his abiding reft ;
When kings had no such guest.
The dew that never wets the finty mountain,
Falls in the valleys free;
But barren sand the sea.
Not in the stately oak the fragrance dwelleth,
Which charms the general wood,
But in the violet low, whose sweetness telleth
Its unseen neighborhood.
The censer swung by the proud hand of merit,
Fumes with a fire abhorred;
A blessing from the Lord.
Round lowliness a gentle radiance hovers,
A sweet, unconscious grace,
The brightness on its face.
Where God abides, contentment is an honor,
Such guerdon Meekness knows ;
Her saintly way she goes.
Through the strait gate of life she passes, stooping,
With sandals on her feet; And pure-eyed Graces, with linked palms, come trooping
Their sister fair to greet.
The angels bend their eyes upon her goings,
And guard her from annoy ;
Of calm, celestial joy.
The Saviour loves her, for she wears the vesture
With which he walked on earth,
And though her childlike glance, and step and gesture,
He knows her heavenly birth.
He now beholds this seal of glory graven
On all whom he redeems,
On every brow it gleams.
The white-robed saints, the throne-stars singing under,
Their state all meekly wear; Their pauseless praise wells up from hearts which
wonder That ever they came there.
ANSWER TO " THERE'S NOTHING BRIGHT BUT
H! say no more, there's nought but heaven,
That's calm, and bright, and true ;
The cypress wreath of woe ;
To feeble mortals given,
To man allied to heaven,
That the rapt spirit has forgot
Its tenement of clay,
Of never-ending day?
Oh, say no more, there's nothing true
But the bright scenes of heaven.
Declaring fin forgiven.
That's calm, or true, or bright;
Amid this realm of night;
We oft have peace at even :
A THANKSGIVING FOR SETTLED HEALTH.
N times of want we feel what bliss
I otin years of plenty be;
When war doth rage, the sweets of peace
The meanest wit can see.
We know it just, O Lord !
When health shall be restored.
Sure, then, the many healthful days
And years which I have had, Deserve that hearty songs of praise Should for the same be made
e ; And that whilst health and strength do last,
I should the same employ
And those which I enjoy.
Whilst others groan with aching bones,
With wounds or inward pains,
Which fret and rend the reins ;
Which on the fick doth seize,