But chiefly settle innocence By tempting me to act a fin, Or virtues to neglect. George Wither. 1588-1667. FAME. HAT fhall I do left life in filence pafs? WHAT And if it do, And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, 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 By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown, What shall I do to gain eternal life? Discharge aright The fimple dues with which each day is rife ? Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise While he, who ever acts as conscience cries, From Schiller. HIDDEN GROWTH. DTempefts and windes and winter-nights! EAR, greenness! nurst below Vex not, that but One sees thee grow; What needs a conscience calm and bright Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch Vaughan. TH THE RIVER OF LIFE. 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 There, O my soul, do thou repair, There droop that wing, when far it flies It may be that the waft of love Some leaves on that pure tide has driven, Have floated down from heaven. So fhall thy wounds and woes be healed Thy Saviour's praise to fing. TRUE GAIN. 4440 SOUL AND BODY. OOR soul, the centre of my finful earth, POOR 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. Shakspeare. |