But Thou wilt _heal_ the broken heart, Which like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathe sweetness out of woe. _Moore._ Dread Omnipotence alone, Can _heal_ the wound He gave; Can point the brim-full, grief-worn eyes, To scenes beyond the grave. _Burns._ Thus ever in the steps of grief, Are sown the precious seeds of joy; Each fount of Marah hath a leaf, Whose _healing_ balm we may employ. Then, ’mid life’s fitful, fleeting day, Look up! the sky is bright above! Kind voices cheer thee on thy way! Faint spirit! trust the God of Love! _Miss A. D. Woodbridge._ _Heal_ me, for my flesh is weak; _Heal_ me, for thy grace I seek; This my only plea I make, _Heal_ me for thy mercy’s sake. _Lyte._ Thou cam’st with _healing_ on thy wings, Oh, gentle gale of spring! Like one that some sweet message brings Of hope and comforting; So with a power to _heal_ the smart Of sin, comes grace unto the heart. _Egone._ HEALTH. Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the _health_ of my countenance, and my God.--Psalm xlii. 11. Pleasant words are as an honey-comb, sweet to the soul, and _health_ to the bones.--Proverbs, xvi. 24. Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there? why then is not the _health_ of the daughter of my people recovered?--Jeremiah, viii. 22. I will restore _health_ unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds, saith the Lord.--Jeremiah, xxx. 17. _Health_, brightest visitant from heaven, Grant me with thee to rest! For the short term by nature given, Be thou my constant guest! For all the pride that wealth bestows, The pleasure that from children flows, Whate’er we court in regal state That makes men covet to be great; Whatever sweets we hope to find In Love’s delightful snare; Whatever good by Heaven assigned, Whatever pause from care: All flourish at thy smile divine; The spring of loveliness is thine, And every joy that warms our hearts, With thee approaches and departs. _Bland, from Alciphron._ Slow wand’ring on the margin of the deep, I breathe the cheering gale of _health_ once more; And see the billows gently dash the steep, That rears its bold head on the sandy shore. Fresh looks the landscape with the dews of dawn; A bluish mist swims o’er the softened grove; The wanton deer bound lightly o’er the lawn, And every copse resounds with notes of love.