The wise will let their anger cool, It burns till morning light. Pardon, O Lord, our childish rage, Our little brawls remove; That as we grow to riper age, Our hearts may all be love. LOVE TO OUR ENEMIES. WHEN Christ among the sons of men With tenderness he bore their griefs, Their peace he still pursued ; They render'd hatred for his love, And evil for his good. Their malice raged without a cause, Yet with his dying breath, He pray'd for murd'rers on the cross, And bless'd his foes in death. From the rich fountains of his love Let not this bright example shine Give us, great God! a soul like his, CONTENTMENT. SHEPHERD, Seek not wealth or power; Let the green and leafy bower, And the hills, and vales, and trees, Can the gaudy, gilded room Thou art happier in thy sphere, In the city's tempting glare, Dwell disease, and strife and care: Nor exchange thy peace for gold! THE ANT OR EMMET. THESE Emmets, how little they are in our eyes! Without our regard or concern ; Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their School, They wear not their time out in sleeping or play, And for winter they lay up their stores; They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms, And so brought their food within doors. But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant, When death or old age shall once stare in my face, If I trifle away all their prime! Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom, Let me think what shall serve me when sickness shall come, And pray that my sins be forgiven: Let me read in good books, and believe and obey, That when death turns me out of this cottage of clay, I may dwell in a palace in heaven. PLEASURES OF INDUSTRY AND CONTENTMENT. SOME think it a hardship to work for their bread, But those that don't work, have no right to be fed ; An honest employment brings pleasure and gain, And makes us our troubles forget; For those that work hard have no time to complain, And 'tis better to labour than fret. E'en if we had riches, they could not procure Rich people have trouble, as well as the poor, It signifies not what our stations have been, We only need labour as hard as we can, AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF. How doth the little busy bee How skilfully she builds her cell- With the sweet food she makes, In works of labour or of skill, For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, THE SAFETY OF A VIRTUOUS COURSE. THERE was an orchard large and round, Which sharp and prickly were, |