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There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges,

For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes-
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

-Henry Vaughan.

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How fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower !

The glory of April and May;
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,

And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,

Above all the flowers of the field,
When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,

Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain-

Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty-
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

- Dr. Watts


OH, tell me, pretty river,

Whence do thy waters flow,
And whither art thou roaming

So pensive and so slow?
My birthplace was the mountain,

My nurse the April showers,
My cradle was a fountain

O’ercurtained by wild flowers
One morn I ran away,

A madcap hoyden rill,
And many a prank that day

I played adown the hill.
And then 'mid meadowy banks

I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped with glowing lips

To woo me to their bowers.
But these bright scenes are o'er,

And darkly flows my wave,
I hear the ocean's roar

And there must be my grave.


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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;
When suddenly a star arose-
It was the Star of Bethlehem.


It was my guide, my light, my all

It bade my dark forebodings cease,
And through the storm and danger's thrall,

It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moored, my perils o'er,

I'll sing first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,
The Star-the Star of Bethlehem !

-H. Kirke White.

The mighty sun had just gone down

Into the chambers of the deep,
The ocean birds had upward flown,

Each in his cave to sleep; And silent was the island shore,

And breathless all the broad red sea,
And motionless beside the door

Our solitary tree-
Our only tree, our ancient palm,

Whose shadow sleeps our door beside,
Partook the universal calm

When Buonaparte died.
An ancient man, a stately man,

Came forth beneath the spreading tree;
His silent thoughts I could not scan,

His tears I needs must see.
A trembling hand had partly covered

The nld man's weeping countenance;
Yet something o'er his sorrow hovered,

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.
Said I, “ Perchance, this faded hand,

When life beat high and hope was young,
By Lodi's wave or Syria's sand,
The bolt of death had flung.

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Young Buonaparte's battle-cry

Perchance hath kindled this old cheek;
It is no shame that he should sigh-

His heart is like to break.
He hath been with him young and old ;

He climbed with him the Alpine snow;
He heard the cannon when they rolled

Along the river Po.

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His soul was as a sword to leap

At his accustomed leader's word ;
I love to see the old man weep-

He knew no other lord.
As if it were but yesternight,

This man remembers dark Eylau ;
His dreams are of the eagles' flight-

Victorious long ago.
The memories of worser time

Are all as shadows unto him ;
Fresh stands the picture of his prime,

The later trace is dim."

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