My soul! rest happy in thy low estate,
Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great;
To take the impression of a will divine,
Be that thy glory, and those riches thine.

Confess him righteous in his just decrees,
Love what he loves, and let his pleasure please;
Die daily; from the touch of sin recede;
Then thou hastcrown'd him, and he reigns indeed.


From thorny wilds a monster came,
That fill'd my soul with fear and shame;
The birds, forgetful of their mirth,
Droop'd at the sight, and fell to earth;
When thus a sage address'd mine ear,
Himself unconscious of a fear.

"Whence all this terror and surprise,
Distracted looks, and streaming eyes?
Far from the world and its affairs,
The joy it boasts, the pain it shares,
Surrender, without guile or art,
To God, an undivided heart;
The savage form, so fear'd before,
Shall scare your trembling soul no more;
For loathsome as the sight may be,
'Tis but the love of self you see.
Fix all your love on God alone,
Choose but his will, and hate your own:

No fear shall in your path be found,
The dreary waste shall bloom around,
And you, through all your happy days,
Shall bless his name, and sing his praise."

Oh lovely solitude, how sweet
The silence of this calm retreat!
Here Truth, the fair whom I pursue,
Gives all her beauty to my view;
The simple, unadorn'd display
Charms every pain and fear away.
0 Truth, whom millions proudly slight;
0 Truth, my treasure and delight;
Accept this tribute to thy name,
And this poor heart from which it came!


Since life in sorrow must be spent,
So be it—I am well content,
And meekly wait my last remove,
Seeking only growth in love.

No bliss I seek, but to fulfil
In life, in death, thy lovely will;
No succours in my woes I want,
Save what thou art pleased to grant.

Our days are number'd, let us spare
Our anxious hearts a needless care:
'Tis thine to number out our days;
Ours to give them to thy praise.
VOL. in. 8

Love is our only business here,
Love, simple, constant, and sincere;
O blessed days, thy servants see!
Spent, O Lord! in pleasing thee.


In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys,
Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise;
Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow,
Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now:
Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see,
Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past with me.

In vain he leaves me, I shall love him still;
And though I mourn, not murmur at his will;
I have no cause—an object all divine
Might well grow weary of a soul like mine;
Yet pity me, great God! forlorn, alone,
Heartless and hopeless, life and love all gone.


Jealous, and with love o'erflowing,
God demands a fervent heart;Grace and bounty still bestowing,
Calls us to a grateful part.

Oh, then, with supreme affection

His paternal will regard! If it cost us some dejection,

Every sigh has its reward.

Perfect love has power to soften
Cares that might our peace destroy,

Nay, does more—transforms them often,
Changing sorrow into joy.

Sovereign love appoints the measure, And the number of our pains;
And is pleased when we find pleasure In the trials he ordains.


Peace has unveil'd her smiling face,
And woos thy soul to her embrace,
Enjoy'd with ease, if thou refrain
From earthly love, else sought in vain;
She dwells with all who truth prefer,
But seeks not them who seek not her.

Yield to the Lord, with simple heart,
All that thou hast, and all thou art;
Renounce all strength but strength divine;
And peace shall be for ever thine:
Behold the path which I have trod,
My path, till I go home to God.


I Place an offering at thy shrine,
From taint and blemish clear, Simple and pure in its design,
Of all that I hold dear. I yield thee back thy gifts again,
Thy gifts which most I prize;

Desirous only to retain
The notice of thine eyes. But if, by thine adored decree,

That blessing be denied;
Resign'd, and unreluctant, see My every wish subside. Thy will in all things I approve,

Exalted or cast down!
Thy will in every state I love, And even in thy frown.


To lay the soul that loves him low, Becomes the Only-wise:
To hide, beneath a veil of woe, The children of the skies.

Man, though a worm, would yet be great;

Though feeble, would seem strong; Assumes an independent state,

By sacrilege and wrong.

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