Tumultuary nations rose

And armed troops our walls inclose,

But His fear'd voice unnerv'd our foes.

The Lord of Hosts is on our side;
The God by Jacob magnified;

Our strength, on whom we have relied.

Come, see the wonders he hath wrought
Who hath to desolation brought
Those kingdoms which our ruin sought.

He makes destructive wars surcease;
The earth, deflowered of her increase,
Restores with universal peace.

He breaks their bows, unarms their quivers,

The bloody spear in pieces shivers,
Their chariots to the flame delivers.

Forbear, and know that I the Lord
Will by all nations be adored:
Prais'd with unanimous accord.

The Lord of Hosts is on our side,
The God by Jacob magnified?

Our strength, on Whom we have relied.

"IT IS APPOINTED UNTO ALL MEN ONCE TO DIE."

THE glories of our blood and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things:

There is no armour against fate :
Death lays his icy hands on kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds
Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor-victim bleeds!

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

HE CAN CARRY NOTHING WITH HIM WHEN HE

DIETH."

WAGES of Sin is death: the day is come,

Wherein the equal hand of death must sum
The several items of man's fading glory
Into the easy total of one story.

The brows that sweat for kingdoms and renown,

To glorify their temples with a crown ;

At length grow cold, and leave their honoured name

To flourish in the uncertain blast of fame.

This is the height that glorious mortals can
Attain; this is the highest pitch of man.
The mighty conqueror of the earth's great ball,
Whose unconfined limits were too small

For his extreme ambition to deserve,

Six feet of length and three of breadth must serve,
This is the highest pitch that man can fly;
While, after all his triumph, he must die.

Lives he in wealth? Doth well-deserved store
Limit his wish, that he can wish no more?
And does the fairest bounty of increase

Crown him with plenty, and his days with peace ?
It is a right-hand blessing: but supply

Of wealth cannot secure him; he must die.

Lives he in pleasure? Does perpetual mirth
Lend him a little heaven upon this earth?
Meets he no sudden care, no sudden loss
To cool his joys? Breathes he without a cross?
Wants he no pleasure that his wanton eye
Can crave or hope from fortune? He must die.

Lives he in honour? hath his fair desert
Obtained the freedom of his prince's heart?
Or may his more familiar hands disburse
His liberal favours from the royal purse?
Alas! his honour cannot soar too high
For pale-faced Death to follow; he must die.

Lives he a conqueror? and doth heaven bless
His heart with spirit, that spirit with success;
Success with glory; glory with a name
To live with the eternity of fame?

The progress of his lasting fame may vie

With time but yet the conqueror must die.

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