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My former pleasures sorrows were become;

But in that love, which to my soul thou hast,

The grave, that all devours, thou keepst

me from,

And didst my errors all behind thee cast;

For, nor the grave, nor death, can honour thee;

Nor hope they for thy truth that buried be. 6.

Oh! he that lives, that lives as I do now, E'en he it is that shall thy praise declare:

Thy truth the father to his seed shall shew.

And how thou me, oh Lord, hast deign'd to spare!

Yea, Lord, for this I will, throughout my days,

Make music in thy house unto thy praise.

GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667).


(Isaiah xxxviii: 15.)

WHEN on my soul in nakedness
His swift, avertless hand did press,
Then I stood still, nor cried aloud,
Nor murmured low in ashes bowed;
And, since my woe is utterless,
To supreme quiet I am vowed;
Afar from me be moan and tears,-
I shall go softly all my years.

Whenso my quick, light-sandaled feet Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet,

I mingle with their throng at will;
They know me not an alien still,
Since neither words nor ways unsweet
Of stored bitterness I spill;
Youth shuns me not, nor gladness

For I go softly all my years.

Whenso I come where Griefs convene,
And in my ear their voice is keen,
They know me not, as on I glide,
That with Arch Sorrow I abide.

They haggard are, and drooped of mien, And round their brows have cypress tied:

Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers,

I shall go softly all my years.

Yea, softly! heart of hearts unknown.
Silence hath speech that passeth moan,
More piercing-keen than breathed cries
To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.
But save this voice without a tone,
That runs before me to the skies,
And rings above thy ringing spheres,
Lord, I shall go softly all my years!

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Like a wine-press in wrath will I trample thee down,

And rend from thy temple the pride of thy crown.

Though thy streets be a hundred, thy gates be all brass,

Yet thy proud ones of war shall be wither'd like grass;

Thy gates shall be broken, thy strength be laid low,

And thy streets shall resound to the shouts of the foe!

Though thy chariots of power on thy battlements bound,

And the grandeur of waters encompass thee round;

Yet thy walls shall be shaken, thy waters shall fail,

Thy matrons shall shriek, and thy king shall be pale.

The terrible dav of thy fall is at hand, When my rage shall descend on the face of thy land;

The lances are pointed, the keen sword is bared,

The shields are anointed,1 the helmets prepared.

I call upon Cyrus! He comes from afar,

And the armies of nations are gather'd to war:

With the blood of thy children his path shall be red,

And the bright sun of conquest shall blaze o'er his head!

Thou glory of kingdoms! thy princes are drunk,2

But their loins shall be loosed, and their hearts shall be sunk;

They shall crouch to the dust, and be counted as slaves,

At the roll of his wheels, like the rushing of waves!

For I am the Lord, who have mightily spann'd

The breadth of the heavens, and the sea and the land;

"Arise, ye princes, and anoint the shield."-Isaiah xxi: 5.

2"I will make drunk her princes."Jeremiah li: 57.

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Thy princes and their mighty bands-
The Lord shall mock their boast!
His Hand shall rein the rushing steed,
And quell the rage of war;
Shall stay the flying lance's speed
And burn the whirling car.

Set ye the standard in the lands;
The Lord of Hosts hath said,
Bid trumpets rouse the distant bands
Of Persia and the Mede;

The bucklers bring, make bright the dart,

I lead thee forth to war.
To burst the gates of brass apart
And break the iron bar!

The spoiler's hand is come upon

Thy valiant men of might,
Their lion hearts, proud Babylon,
Have failed thee in the fight;
Thy cities are all desolate,

Thy lofty gates shall fall,

The hand that wrought Gomorrah's fate

Shall crush thy mighty wall.

The shepherd shall not fold his flocks
Upon the desert plain,

But, lurking in thy cavern'd rocks,
The forest beast shall reign.
Fair Babylon, Lost Babylon!
Sit in the dust and mourn,
Hurled headlong from thy lofty
Forgotten and forlorn!



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Surely the isles shall wait for me,

The ships of Tarshish round will hover,

To bring thy sons across the sea,

And waft their gold and silver over. And Lebanon thy pomp shall graceThe fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place

And make the ground I tread on glo


No more shall Discord haunt thy ways, Nor ruin waste thy cheerless_nation; But thou shalt call thy portals, Praise, And thou shalt name thy walls, Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright, Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;

But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,

And flash eternal glory through thee. Thy sun shall never more go down;

A ray, from Heav'n itself descended, Shall light thy everlasting crown

Thy days of mourning all are ended. My own, elect, and righteous Land!

The Branch, forever green and vernal, Which I have planted with this handLive thou shalt in Life Eternal. THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852).

ISAIAH LX. : 15-20.

HEAR what God the Lord hath spoken,
"O my people, faint and few,
Comfortless, afflicted, broken,
Fair abodes I build for you.
Thorns of heartfelt tribulation

Shall no more perplex your ways; You shall name your walls, Salvation, And your gates shall all be Praise.

"There, like streams that feed the garden,

Pleasures without end shall flow, For the Lord, your faith rewarding, All His bounty shall bestow; Still in undisturbed possession Peace and righteousness shall reign; Never shall you feel oppression,

Hear the voice of war again.

"Ye no more your suns descending, Waning moons no more shall see; But your griefs forever ending, Find eternal noon in me;

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