HENRY VAUGHAN
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend,
And O my soul, awake! Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thce secure But One who never changes
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
The Timber
SURE thou didst flourish once' and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy line
Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.
�� �
