My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars; 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 oh! my soul, awake; Did in pure love descend To die here for my 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._ Sure the last end Of the good man is _peace_. How calm his exit! Night dews fall not more calmly on the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. _Blair._ Hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends; There is _peace_ in his eye that upward bends; There is _peace_ in his calm confiding air; For his last thoughts are God’s, his last words, prayer. _Henry Ware, Jun._ “_Peace_” was the word our Saviour breathed, When from our world His steps withdrew; The gift He to His friends bequeathed, With Calvary and the Cross in view:-- Redeemer! With adoring love Our spirits take Thy rich bequest, The watchword of the host above, The passport to their realm of rest. _Mrs. Sigourney._ Oh, _peace_; thou source and soul of social life, Beneath whose calm inspiriting influence, Science his views enlarges; art refines, And swelling Commerce opens all her ports; Blest be the man divine who gives us thee; Who bids the trumpet hush its horrid clang, Nor blow the giddy nations into rage. Who sheathes the murderous blade, the deadly gun Into the well-piled armoury returns; And every vigour from the work of death To grateful industry converting, makes The country flourish and the city smile. _Thomson._ When groves by moonlight silence keep, And winds the vexed waves release, And fields are hushed, and cities sleep,-- Lord! is not this the hour of _Peace_? When Infancy at Evening tries By turns to climb each Parent’s knees, And gazing meets their raptured eyes,-- Lord! is not this the hour of _Peace_? In golden pomp when autumn smiles; And every vale its rich increase In man’s full barns exulting piles;-- Lord! is not this the hour of _Peace_?