THE CHOICE.

Lend me your ear a little space:

I sing of Nature and of Grace.

Saith Nature, My first good is health: My next, to be of gentle birth:

My third is gold, not gained by stealth: My fourth, convivial mirth.

B

These are my choicest wealth,

My heaven on earth.

Beauty and fame, though frail they be,

Are also of the family.

Saith Grace, And I have blessings, given
To raise the soul from earth to heaven.
For blessed are the poor in spirit!

Who all self-righteousness disown,

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And, resting on a Saviour's merit

To rescue and atone,

A kingdom shall inherit,

A heavenly throne.

In their own eye each mote they find;

To beams within a brother's blind.

They see what shadows men pursue,

And feel themselves but shadows too.

But oh! what crowns shall they have on,
When all our tinsel glory's gone!

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A show, that ends but in a shroud:
Can dust and ashes then be proud?

Be proud, ye peacocks, of your plumage:
Ye eagles, of your wide domain:

Ye lions, of your forest's homage:

Ye serpents, of your shining train.
Thou bright-haired sun!

Be proud to run

A giant's course above our head:

And thou, fair moon!

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Is this, too, blest? 'tis even so,

If patiently we bear the cross.
Death rends a partner from our side:

A child is torn from parents' knees:
A husband, in his manhood's pride,
Seeks glory on the distant seas.
Can monumental praise repair

The loss of one who sleeps beneath?

Can flowers, replaced with punctual care,

Revive the flower that's cropt by Death?

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