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There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
Commands the beauteous files.
And (O my soul, awake!)
To die here for thy sake.
There grows the flower of peace,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
For none can thee secure
How fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower !
The glory of April and May;
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Since both of them wither and fade;
- Dr. Watts
OH, tell me, pretty river,
Whence do thy waters flow,
So pensive and so slow?
My nurse the April showers,
O’ercurtained by wild flowers
A madcap hoyden rill,
I played adown the hill.
I flirted with the flowers,
To woo me to their bowers.
And darkly flows my wave,
And there must be my grave.
WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain
The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone of all the train
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From every host, from every gem; But one alone the Saviour speaks
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode :
The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed
The wind, that tossed my foundering hark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck I ceased the tide to stem;
It was my guide, my light, my all
It bade my dark forebodings cease,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing first in night's diadem,
-H. Kirke White.
Into the chambers of the deep,
Each in his cave to sleep; And silent was the island shore,
And breathless all the broad red sea,
Our solitary tree-
Whose shadow sleeps our door beside,
When Buonaparte died.
Came forth beneath the spreading tree;
His tears I needs must see.
The nld man's weeping countenance;
That spake of war and FranceSomething that spake of other days,
When trumpets pierced the kindling air, And the keen eye could firmly gaze
Through battle's crimson glare.
When life beat high and hope was young,
Young Buonaparte's battle-cry
Perchance hath kindled this old cheek;
His heart is like to break.
He climbed with him the Alpine snow;
Along the river Po.
His soul was as a sword to leap
At his accustomed leader's word ;
He knew no other lord.
This man remembers dark Eylau ;
Victorious long ago.
Are all as shadows unto him ;
The later trace is dim."