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But chiefly settle innocence
And pureness in my heart:
So nought without me or within,
Shall work an ill effect,

By tempting me to act a fin,

Or virtues to neglect.

George Wither. 1588-1667.


HAT fhall I do left life in filence pafs?


And if it do,

And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,
What need'ft thou rue?

Remember, aye the Ocean deeps are mute;

The fhallows roar;

Worth is the Ocean

Along the fhore.

Fame is but the bruit

What fhall I do to be forever known?

Thy duty ever.

This did full many who yet flept unknown,

Oh! never, never!

Think'st thou perchance, that they remain unknown
Whom thou know'ft not?

By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown,
Divine their lot.

What shall I do to gain eternal life?

Discharge aright

The fimple dues with which each day is rife ?
Yea, with thy might.

Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise
Will life be fled,

While he, who ever acts as conscience cries,
Shall live, though dead.

From Schiller.


DTempefts and windes and winter-nights!

EAR, greenness! nurst below

Vex not, that but One sees thee grow;
That One made all these leffer lights.

What needs a conscience calm and bright
Within itself, an outward teft?
Who breaks his glafs to take more light,
Makes way for ftorms into his reft.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch
At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;
Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch
Till the white-wingéd reapers come!




HERE is a pure and peaceful wave, That rolls around the throne of love, Whose waters gladden as they lave

The peaceful shores above.

While ftreams which on that tide depend, Steal from those heavenly fhores away, And on this desert world descend,

O'er weary lands to stray;

The pilgrim, faint, and nigh to sink
Beneath his load of earthly woe,
Refreshed befide their verdant brink,
Rejoices in their flow.

There, O my soul, do thou repair,
And hover o'er the hallowed spring,
To drink the cryftal wave, and there
To lave thy wearied wing.

There droop that wing, when far it flies
From human care, and toil, and ftrife,
And feed by those ftill streams that rise
Beneath the tree of life.

It may be that the waft of love

Some leaves on that pure tide has driven,
Which, paffing from the fhores above,

Have floated down from heaven.

So fhall thy wounds and woes be healed
By the bleft virtue that they bring;
So thy parched lips fhall be unsealed,

Thy Saviour's praise to fing.





OOR soul, the centre of my finful earth,


Foiled by those rebel powers that thee array, Why doft thou pine within, and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large coft, having so fhort a lease, Doft thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's lofs, And let that pine to aggravate thy ftore! Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ! Within be fed, without be rich no more!

So fhalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And, death once dead, there's no more dying then.


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