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Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

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 ;
But he in heavenly truth most deeply gifted,

Sits lowest in Christ's school.

The lowly spirit God hath consecrated

As his abiding reft ;
An angel by some patriarch's tent hath waited,

When kings had no such guest.

The dew that never wets the finty mountain,

Falls in the valleys free;
Bright verdure fringes the small desert fountain,

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;
But faith's two mites, dropped covertly, inherit

A blessing from the Lord.

Round lowliness a gentle radiance hovers,

A sweet, unconscious grace,
Which, even in shrinking, evermore discovers

The brightness on its face.

Where God abides, contentment is an honor,

Such guerdon Meekness knows ;
His peace within her, and His smile upon her,

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 ;
Heaven fills her quiet heart with overflowings

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,
And in his own bright city, crystal-paven,

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.

Christian Register.




H! say no more, there's nought but heaven,

That's calm, and bright, and true ;
Say not, our only portion 's care,
That man is ever doomed to wear

The cypress wreath of woe ;
Are there not pleasures of the soul

To feeble mortals given,
Feelings so pregnant with delight,
A joy so warm, so calm, so bright,

To man allied to heaven,

That the rapt spirit has forgot

Its tenement of clay,
Nor fondly wish'd its woes were o'er,
The conflict pass’d, and gained the shore

Of never-ending day?

Oh, say no more, there's nothing true

But the bright scenes of heaven.
Oh, there is truth in Mercy's page,
Directing youth, consoling age,

Declaring fin forgiven.
Oh, say no more, there's nought but heaven,

That's calm, or true, or bright;
Bright are the beams the Saviour sheds,
The radiance that the Gospel spreads

Amid this realm of night;
Though loud the blast, though dark the day,

We oft have peace at even :
If earth can yield such pure delight,
Or bliss so sacred and so bright,
How calm, how true, how bright is heaven!


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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.
And when with sickness we are pain’d,

We know it just, O Lord !
To render praise and thanks unfeign'd,

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
To memorize the mercies past,

And those which I enjoy.

Whilst others groan with aching bones,

With wounds or inward pains,
With gouts, or those tormenting stones

Which fret and rend the reins ;
Yea, while ten thousands feel the smart

Which on the fick doth seize,

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