A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

l'QE)[S OJ' R:~ON A1'D 8h'l'IJoNT. 149

Cloeer and c:loser then we knit

Hearts and hand.e together,

Where our ii.r'eaide comforts sit

In the coldest weather:

0 I they wn.Ja.der wide, who roam,

For the joy11 of life, from home.

Nearer, de&:J·er bands of lov·e

Draw our souls ill uuion,

To our Father's house above,

To the saints' communion;

Thither e\"el:'y hope ascend,

There,may a,U our laboUJ'IJ end.

&~gt Jam ~m.

How happy 'is he born &nd taught,

That-serv~•th not another's will;

Wh011e armour is his honest thoul{ht,

And simple truth his utm011t skalll

Whose passions not his mastere are,

Whose soutl is still prep~red for death,

Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame or private brenth;

"Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wound.e are given by pmiee ;

Nor rules of etatt!, but rules c:tf goed ;

Who hath hi13 life from rumoure freed,

Whose coo.scieuce is his strong retre.t;

Whose state •can neither tlatterere feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors grllat;

Wbo God dof;h late and early pray,
More of hiu grace than gifts to lend ;
Ancl entertai1as the harmle88 day
With a religious book or friend;

This man is £reed from servile band.e
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ;
Lord of himsCllf, though not of lands ;
And, having nothing, yet hath all
WOTTON.

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