There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits, crown'd with smiles,

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,

And, O my soul! awake,Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges,
For none can thee secure

But one who never changes-
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

IL DIVOTO.

The self-remembering soul sweetly recovers

Her kindred with the stars: not basely hovers
Below-but meditates th' immortal way

Home to the source of light and intellectual day.

CRASHAW.