THE MYRTLE. 
81 
Which outrage, wrongs, nor wounds destroy 
But wake its sweetness from repose; 
Ah! could I thus Heaven’s gifts employ, 
Worth seen, worth hidden thus disclose: 
In health, with unpretending grace. 
In wealth, with meekness and with fear, 
Through every season wear one face, 
And he in truth what I appear. 
Then should affliction’s chastening rod 
Bruise my frail frame, or break my heart, 
Life, a sweet sacrifice to God, 
Out breathed like incense would depart. 
The Captain of Salvation thus, 
When like a lamb to slaughter led, 
Was, by the Father’s will, for us, 
Himself through suffering purified. 
* 
