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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely ways and destiny obscure — Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple Annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Alike await the inevitable hour ;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air,

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breaft,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of liftening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise — To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

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THE CHURCH.
HOUGH private prayer be a brave de-

sign,
Yet public hath more promises,

more love; And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes

a fign, We are all but cold suitors ; let us move Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven; Pray with the most ; for where most pray,

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Heaven.

When once thy foot enters the Church, be bare ;

God is more there than thou; for thou art there Only by His permission. Then beware,

And make thyself all reverence and fear. Kneeling ne'er spoiled filk stocking; quit thy state : All equal are within the Church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most;

Praying's the end of preaching. Oh, be drest ; Stay not for the other pin. Why, thou hast loft

A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.

In time of service seal up both thine eyes,

And send them to thine heart, that spying sin, They may weep out the stains by them that rise,

Those doors being shut, all by the ears comes in. Who marks in Church-time others' symmetry, Marks all their beauty his deformity.

Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part ;
Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasure

thither; Christ purged His Temple, so must thou thy heart;

All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together To cozen thee. Look to thy action well, For Churches either are our Heaven or Hell.

Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge ;

If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not ; God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge

To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good; if all want sense, God takes a text, and preacheth patience.

He that gets patience, and the blessing which

Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains;

He that by being at Church escapes the ditch

Which he might fall in by companions, gains. He that loves God's abode, and to combine With saints on earth, shall one day with them shine.

G. HERBERT.

XXXVI.

THE CHRISTIAN.

LOW fine has the day been, how bright

was the fun! How lovely and joyful the course that

he run!
Though he rose in a mist, when his

race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain.
But now the fair traveller's come to the West,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay, as he sinks to his rest,

And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian! His course he begins, Like the Sun in a mist, when he mourns for his

fins, And melts into tears, then he breaks out and shines,

And travels his Heavenly way.
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting fun, he looks richer in grace;
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days,

Of rising in brighter array.

WATTS.

XXXVII.

CONTENTMENT.

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HOME murmur when their sky is clear,

And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear,

In their great heaven of blue ;
And some with thankful love are

filled,
If but one streak of light,
One
ray
of God's

great mercy gild
The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that alk,

In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,

And all good things denied ?
And hearts in poorest huts admire

How love has, in their aid,
(Love that not ever seems to tire,)

Such rich provision made.

TRENCH.

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