THE SLUGGARD
'T is the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon! I must slumber again!"
As a door on its hinges, so he on his bed
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
"A little more sleep and a little more slumber!"
Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number;
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me!
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who have taught me betimes to love working and reading."
--Isaac Watts.

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THE DIVINE SHEPHERD
By Murillo (1618-1682)

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PRAISE FOR MERCIES, SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL

Whene'er I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see!
What shall I render to the Lord
For all His gifts to me!
Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God hath given me more;
For I have food, while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.
How many children in the street
Half naked I behold!
While I am clothed from head to feet
And cover'd from the cold.
While some poor wretches scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a home wherein to dwell,
And rest upon my bed.
While others early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal;
Lord, I am taught Thy name to fear,
And do Thy holy will.
Are these Thy favors, day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love Thee more than they,
And try to serve Thee best.
--Isaac Watts.

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THE ROSE

How fair is the Rose! What a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May;
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field!
When its leaves are all dead and fine colors are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like the Rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
--Isaac Watts.

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