Content to be by most forgot,

If they're remembered still by some; Calm, in a dear familiar spot,

They wait till God shall bid them come.
They know that hours full swiftly glide
Between life's morn and even tide;

And great the work that must be done,
Ere setting of that evening's sun:
While unto God alike appears

The darkness and the light:

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The oak that stands a thousand years,

And mushroom of a night:

The most enduring empire's fall,

And crumbling of an earthen wall:

A hero's fame, a river's froth:

And crushed a Samson, as a moth:

They know that, were our globe to stray
From precincts of the solar day,

It were to God as if a mote

From its own sunny gleam should float:

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That hence to the remotest sphere,

As a young sparrow's flight, is near:
Our very system's overthrow,

As melting of a flake of snow.

Times, spaces, things, must equal be,

With Him who spans infinity.

They, who thus read the Eternal Mind,

Leave sublunary trust behind:

And, while reposing on that Power

Which guards in danger's darkest hour,

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They feel that man with sword and steed, For or against them is a reed.

With thoughts thus tranquillized and even,

Forgetful of corroding cares,

They live within a little heaven,

And all they wish of earth is theirs.

Blessed are they that inly pine!

Hungering, yet not for pleasant food;

Thirsting, yet not for cups of wine :
But to be holy, just, and good.

They shall be filled with better things

Than grace the festivals of kings.

When cheer is flowing,

And hearts are glowing;

Above the board,

By slender thread,

Is hung a sword

High o'er the head:

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