Let no vain cares divert my mind Nor all the pleasures of the earth, Think of the splendour of that place, Heav'n is the birth-place of the saints, 0! may these lovely titles prove When the sick bed shall be my lot, SECTION 7. Heavenly wisdom. How happy is the man, who hears And who celestial Wisdom makes For she has treasures greater far, M In her right hand, she holds to view A length of happy years; And in her left, the prize of fame She guides the young, with innocence, According as her labours rise, So her rewards increase: Her ways are ways of pleasantness, SECTION 8. The example of Christ. BEHOLD, where, in a mortal form, The largest love of human kind In deeds of mercy, words of peace, To spread the rays of heav'nly light, To preach glad tidings to the poor, Lowly in heart, by all his friends A friend and servant found; He wash'd their feet, he wip'd their tears, And heal'd each bleeding wound. 'Midst keen reproach, and cruel scorn, His foes, ungrateful, sought his life; In the last hour of deep distress, With soul resign'd, he bow'd and said: Be Christ my pattern, and my guide! O may I tread his sacred steps; SECTION 9. Paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of St. Matthew. THINK not, when all your scanty stores afford, Is spread at once upon the sparing board; See the light tenants of the barren air : To them, nor stores, nor granaries belong; Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; Observe the various vegetable race : They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow; Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow! If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds; SECTION 10. Comfort in affliction. WHY, O my soul, why thus depress'd, And whence this anxious fear? Let former favours fix thy trust, When darkness and when sorrows rose, Did not the Lord sustain thy steps, Affliction is a stormy deep, Where wave resounds to wave: Here will I rest, and build my hope; He's more than all the world to me, My health, my life, my God! SECTION 11. Contentment. IF solid happiness we prize, From our own minds our joys must flow, Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing, she left That safe retreat, the ark: Our portion is not large, indeed; In this, the art of living lies, And make that little do. We'll, therefore, relish with content, Nor aim beyond our pow'r : To be resign'd when ills betide; And pleas'd with favours giv'n; |