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Perish policy and cunning!

Perish all that fears the light! Whether losing, whether winning,

"Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no party, sect, or faction;

Trust no leaders in the fight; But in every word and action,

"Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no lovely forms of passion:
Fiends may look like angels bright;

Trust no custom, school, or fashion,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Simple rule, and safest guiding,
Inward peace, and inward might,

Star upon our path abiding,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight:

Cease from man, and look above thee,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Norman Macleod

V
DEATH

CXXVIII

MAN'S MORTALITY

Like as the damask rose you see,

Or as the blossom on the tree,

Or like the dainty flower of May,

Or like the morning to the day,

Or like the sun, or like the shade,

Or like the gourd which Jonas had,

E'en such is man ;—whose thread is spun,

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.—

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,

The flower fades, the morning hasteth,

The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes—and man, he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,

Or like a tale that's new begun,

Or like the bird that's here to-day,

Or like the pearled dew of May,

Or like an hour, or like a span,

Or like the singing of a swan,

E'en such is man ;—who lives by breath,

Is here, now there, in life, and death.—

The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dews ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death,—man's life is done.

S. Wastell

cxxix

TO GOD IN HIS SICKNESS

What though my harp and viol be
Both hung upon the willow tree?
What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie number'd with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring—though now a wither'd flower.

R. Herrick

cxxx A HAPPY DEATH As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but perfume the temple, and expire; So was she born, exhaled, and vanish'd hence, A short sweet odour, of a vast expense. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died; For but a now did heaven and earth divide; She pass'd serenely with a single breath; This moment perfect health, the next was death. As gentle dreams on waking thoughts pursue; Or one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;

So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep,
So softly death succeeded life in her,
She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffer'd, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice.

John Dryden

cxxxi

MAGDALEN'S HYMN

During the Plague

The air of death breathes through our souls,

The dead all round us lie;
By day and night the death-bell tolls,

And says, " Prepare to die."

The face that, in the morning sun,

We thought so wondrous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,

Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave

With thin locks silvery-grey;
I see the child's bright tresses wave

In the cold breath of day.

The loving ones we loved the best,

Like music, all are gone!
And the wan moonlight bathes in rest

Their monumental stone.

But not, when the death prayer is said,

The life of life departs; The body in the grave is laid,

Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet

Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet

Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came !—

We veil our eyes before Thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name.

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy;

We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years

In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;

We part with life—awake! and there
The jewel in our breast

Prof. Wilson

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