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Little chary of thy fame—
Dust unborn may bless or blame—
But we mould thee for the root
Of man's promised healing fruit,
And we mould thee hence to rise
As our brother in the skies.

J. H. Newman





When the great Hebrew king did almost strain The wondrous treasures of his wealth and brain, His royal southern guest to entertain;

Though she on silver floors did tread, With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, To hide the metal's poverty; Though she look'd up to roofs of gold, And nought around her could behold But silk and rich embroidery, And Babylonish tapestry, And wealthy Hiram's princely dye; Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her

eye; Though she herself, and her gay host were drest With all the shining glories of the East; When lavish art her costly work had done, The honour and the prize of bravery Was by the garden from the palace won; And every rose and lily there did stand Better attired by nature's hand.

Where does the wisdom and the power divine

In a more bright and sweet reflection shine?

Where do we finer strokes and colours see

Of the Creator's real poetry,
Than when we with attention look
Upon the third day's volume of the book?

But we despise these His inferior ways,

Though no less full of miracle and praise:
Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze;

The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.

A. Cowley


"Who for the like of me will care?"
So whispers many a mournful heart,

When in the weary languid air,
For grief or scorn we pine apart.

So haply mused yon little maid,

From Israel's breezy mountain borne,

No more to rest in Sabbath shade,
Watching the free and waving corn.

A captive now, and sold, and bought,
In the proud Syrian's hall she waits,

Forgotten—such her moody thought—
Even as the worm beneath the gates.

But One who ne'er forgets is here:
He hath a word for thee to speak:

O serve Him yet in duteous fear,
And to thy Gentile lord be meek.

So shall the healing Name be known
By thee on many a heathen shore,

And Naaman on his chariot throne
Wait humbly by Elisha's door.

By thee desponding lepers know
The sacred water's sevenfold might,

Then wherefore sink in listless woe?

Christ's poor and needy claim your right.

Your heavenly right to do and bear
All for His sake; nor yield one sigh

To pining doubt; nor ask "What care
In the wide world for such as I?"

y. Keble



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the

sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen, Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath

blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the fase of the foe as he pass'd, And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

Lord Byron



O, happy is the man who hears
Instruction's warning voice,

And who celestial wisdom makes
His early, only choice.

For she has treasures, greater far
Than east or west unfold,

And her reward is more secure
Than is the gain of gold.


In her right hand, she holds to view

A length of happy years;
And in her left, the prize of fame,

And honour bright appears.

She guides the young with innocence,

In pleasure's path to tread;
A crown of glory she bestows

Upon the hoary head.

According as her labours rise,

So her rewards increase;
Her ways are ways of pleasantness,

And all her paths are peace.

J. Logan


Chap. III. 17, 18.

Yet though the fig-tree should no burden bear,
Though vines delude the promise of the year;
Yet though the olive should not yield her oil,
Nor the parch'd glebe reward the peasant's toil;
Though the tired ox beneath his labours fall,
And herds in millions perish from the stall!

Yet shall my grateful strings

For ever praise Thy name,

For ever Thee proclaim The everlasting God, the mighty King of Kings.


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