THOU tranquil friend! to thee I’ll fly,
When foes my peace invade;
With thee shall ev’ry care subside,
Nor storms thy realms invade.
For should the world its frowns bestow,
And sad the moments roll;
Thou shalt receive the frequent sigh,
And raise the drooping soul.
In thy retreats where prayer and praise,
Life’s fleeting hours divide;
Sublimely rais’d above the world,
Her anxious cares subside.
There tranquilized the mind shall rest,
While future scenes engage;
There hear the distant thunders roar,
Nor dread the tempest’s rage.
Exalted view the various fears,
That vex this world of woes;
While peace descending from on high,
An holy calm bestows.
Religion loves the silent hour,
Her paths are ever blest;
She leads us to reflection’s bower,
And soothes her welcome guest.
There is a hunger and a thirst,
Which nothing can supply,
But bread from God’s unsparing hand,
And water from on high.
The souls that crave immortal food,
Are by religion fed;
They feel a want before unknown,
And pant for living bread.
And ever has the heav’n taught mind,
The tranquil scene preferr’d;
There list’ning to the still small voice,
In silence only heard.
Sweet Solitude, O let me share
The pleasures of thy shade!
For pure devotion, calm delight,
And contemplation made.
Oh! what are riches, honours, power,
Which men so fondly crave;
What are they but a vanquish’d host,
That perish in the grave:
But mould’ring pillars that support
A fabric that must fall;
They prop our vanity awhile,
And all our hearts enthral.
Ask the rich man in gilded pomp,
A prey to racking pain;
He then their value justly owns,
And tells thee they are vain.
When health is ours we give to these
A false delusive worth;
And sacrificing real joys,
We barter heav’n for earth.
What should we gain tho’ arts and arms,
Our honour’d name enrol;
If to obtain the spoils of time,
We sacrifice the soul.
Not e’en a crown shall pass to heav’n,
Save that which virtue wears;
Her diadem for ever shines,
Nor time its worth impairs.
But should it grace the heav’nborn soul,
Tho’ hard may be its fate;
Tho’ poverty and grief attend,
And pain its steps await;
That crown shall pass the gates of death,
Its glory still remain;
And in a state of boundless joy,
The soul triumphant reign.
That spark of heav’n’s ethereal flame,
Thro’ endless years shall shine;
And prove by its eternal life,
Its origin divine.
(Elizabeth Bath)
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