But timorous mortals start and shrink To cross this narrow sea, And linger shivering on the brink, And fear to launch away. Oh! could we make our doubts remove, Those gloomy doubts that rise, And see the Canaan that we love With unbeclouded eyes-- Could we but climb where Moses stood, And view the landscape o'er, Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood Should fright us from the shore. ISAAC WATTS. * * * * * PEACE. My soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a wingèd sentry, All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger, Sweet peace sits crowned 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. * * * * * STAR-MIST. FROM "STARS." More and more stars! behold yon hazy arch Spanning the vault on high, By planets traversed in majestic march, Seeming to earth's dull eye A breath of gleaming air: but take thou wing Of Faith and upward spring:-- Into a thousand stars the misty light Will part; each star a world with its own day and night. Not otherwise of yonder Saintly host Upon the glorious shore Deem thou. He marks them all, not one is lost; By name He counts them o'er. Full many a soul, to man's dim praise unknown, May on its glory throne As brightly shine, and prove as strong in prayer As theirs, whose separate beams shoot keenest thro' this air. JOHN KEBLE. * * * * * THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. FROM "THE FAËRIE QUEENE," BOOK II. CANTO 8. And is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is:--else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessèd angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward; O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard! EDMUND SPENSER. * * * * * SAINT AGNES.