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.
The village-clocks proclaim the passing hour;
The tall spires glitter to the early sun;
The ploughman, whistling, quits his low-roofed bow’r,
And now his peaceful labour is begun.
Yet not this ocean, cheered with many a sail,
Nor all these rural sounds, and pastures fair,
To solace worn disease could aught avail,
Or from his bosom chase the clouds of care.
The merry morn no rapture could impart,
Nor converse sweet of friends his hours beguile;
In vain could beauty warm his aching heart,
Or on his cold-wan cheek awake a smile.
Yet oft we slight thy worth, O, blessed Health!
Poor mortals as we are, till thou art flown;
And thy sweet joys, more dear than fame or wealth,
Touch not our hearts, but pass unfelt, unknown.
The joys, without whose aid whate’er of blest,
Or great, or fair, the heavens to man ordain,
Is dull and tasteless to the unthankful breast,
Love loveless, youth old age, and pleasure pain.
Rev. E. Hamley.
What is life?—like a flower, with the bane in its bosom,
To-day, full of promise, to-morrow it dies!
And health like the dewdrop that hung on its blossom,
Survives but a night, and exhales to the skies:
How oft ’neath the bud that is brightest and fairest,
The seeds of the canker in embryo lurk!
How oft at the root of the flower that is rarest,
Secure in its ambush the worm is at work!
Dr. W. Beattie.
Green pastures and clear streams,
Freedom and quiet rest,
Christ’s flock enjoy beneath his beams,
Or in his shadow, blest.
The mountain and the vale,
Forest and field they range;
The morning dew, the evening gale,
Bring health ev’ry change.
The wounded and the weak
He comforts, heals, and binds;
The lost he came from heaven to seek,
And saves them when he finds.
J. Montgomery.