Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | December 1, 2008


by Henry Vaughan (1621 – 1695).




My soul, there is a country  

  Far beyond the stars,  

Where stands a wingèd sentry  

  All skilful in the wars:  

There, above noise and danger,                            5

  Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,  

And One born in a manger  

  Commands the beauteous files.  

He is thy gracious Friend,  

  And—O my soul, awake!—                                 10

Did in pure love descend  

  To die here for thy sake.  

If thou canst get but thither,  

  There grows the flower of Peace,  

The Rose that cannot wither,                               15

  Thy fortress, and thy ease.  

Leave then thy foolish ranges;  

  For none can thee secure  

But One who never changes—  

  Thy God, thy life, thy cure.                                  20



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