What joys they feel, who follow such a guide!
Joys! which exceed all human worldly pride,
Joys! which e'en death itself cannot destroy,
For then they "enter on their Master's joy!"
Oh did the proud and selfish but believe
How far more blest to , than to
Did but the slaves of pomp and grandeur know
What streams of comfort from their wealth might flow!
Waters! as pure as morning dews, which rise
From lofty mountains till they reach the skies,
Descending thence, as tender drops of rain,
They cheer each valley, and each thirsty plain;
So when in gratitude the widow's pray'r,
The pris'ner's sighs reliev'd, the orphan's tear
To Heav'n ascend, an offering pure and neat,
A blest memorial and an odour sweet,