By cool Siloam’s shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon’s dewy rose!
Lo! such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod,
Whose secret heart with influence sweet
Is upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power,
And stormy passion’s rage!
O thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father’s shrine!
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned
Were all alike divine!
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thy own!
* * * * *
_Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man
is peace.--Psalm XXXVII._