At length I met a reverend good old man: 
    Whom when for Peace
  I did demand, he thus began: 
    “There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
    Of flock and fold.

“He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
    His life from foes. 
  But after death, out of his grave
    There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: 
Which many wondering at, got some of those
    To plant and set.

“It prosper’d strangely, and did soon disperse
    Through all the earth: 
  For they that taste it do rehearse,
    That virtue lies therein;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
  By flight of sin.

“Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
    And grows for you;
  Make bread of it:—­and that repose
    And peace, which everywhere
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
    Is only there.”

_—­G.  Herbert_

A SONG OF PRAISE

To God, ye choir above, begin
  A hymn so loud and strong
That all the universe may hear
  And join the grateful song.

Praise Him, thou sun, Who dwells unseen
  Amidst transcendent light,
Where thy refulgent orb would seem
  A spot, as dark as night.

Thou silver moon, ’ye host of stars,
  The universal song
Through the serene and silent night
  To listening worlds prolong.

Sing Him, ye distant worlds and suns,
  From whence no travelling ray
Hath yet to us, through ages past,
  Had time to make its way.

Assist, ye raging storms, and bear
  On rapid wings His praise,
From north to south, from east to west,
  Through heaven, and earth, and seas.

Exert your voice, ye furious fires
  That rend the watery cloud,
And thunder to this nether world
  Your Maker’s words aloud.

Ye works of God, that dwell unknown
  Beneath the rolling main;
Ye birds, that sing among the groves,
  And sweep the azure plain;

Ye stately hills, that rear your heads,
  And towering pierce the sky;
Ye clouds, that with an awful pace
  Majestic roll on high;

Ye insects small, to which one leaf
  Within its narrow sides
A vast extended world displays,
  And spacious realms provides;

Ye race, still less than these, with which
  The stagnant water teems,
To which one drop, however small,
  A boundless ocean seems;

Whate’er ye are, where’er ye dwell,
  Ye creatures great or small,
Adore the wisdom, praise the power,
  That made and governs all.

_—­P.  Skelton_

THE TRAVELLER

How are thy servants blest, O Lord! 
  How sure is their defence! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
  Their help, Omnipotence.

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
  Supported by Thy care,
Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt,
  And breathed in tainted air.