The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set, O Mercy! O Mercy! look down from above, When beneath, to their darkness the wicked are driven, THE MERRY HEART. I WOULD not from the wise require A single counter of their store. And more than wisdom, more than wealth,- At once, 'tis true, two witching eyes And quite subdued my better reason. The merry heart, that laughed at care. So now, from idle wishes clear, I make the good I may not find; And shift my sail with every wind. Can still with pliant heart prepare, The merry heart, that laughs at care. Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, And pleased and pleasing let me live BISHOP MANT. DR. RICHARD MANT, one of the editors of a most valuable edition of the Holy Bible, is a living writer of great eminence. After filling for a time the office of Chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury, he became rector of St. Botolph, Bishopsgate, and in 1820 was appointed to the see of Killaloe, whence he was translated in 1823 to Down and Connor. Beside an admirable treatise on "The Happiness of the Blessed," some volumes of "Sermons," and a valuable "History of the Church of Ireland," Bishop Mant has published numerous small poems on sacred subjects which have a high degree of merit. CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. OH! come it first, or come it last, The sun shall rise, and all be light! Sweet thought, and of sweet solace full, And apt the swelling grief to lull Of those, beside a parting friend The form, so cherished once and dear, To follow on his funeral bier; And see the grave above it close, The last "long home" of man's repose. It has been said, and I believe, Though tears of natural sorrow start, "Tis mixed with pleasure when we grieve For those the dearest to the heart, From whom long-lived at length we part; As by a Christian's feelings led We lay them in their peaceful bed. Yet speak I not of those who go The allotted pilgrimage on earth, But such as tread with loftier scope We grieve to think, that they again Shall ne'er in this world's pleasure share: But sweet the thought, that this world's pain No more is theirs; that this world's care It is no more their lot to bear. And surely in this scene below We grieve to see the lifeless form, The livid cheek, the sunken eye: But sweet to think, corruption's worm And claim its kindred with the sky. Aloft the unbodied tenant flies. We grieve to think, our eyes no more That form, those features loved, shall trace: But sweet it is from memory's store To call each fondly-cherished grace, And fold them in the heart's embrace. No bliss 'mid worldly crowds is bred, We grieve to see expired the race They ran, intent on works of love : Which with their better nature strove, We grieve to know, that we must roam Apart from them each wonted spot: Have gained, a fair and goodly lot, Severed from those we love, remain: Exempt from sorrow, fear, and pain, "Tis but like them to sink to rest, O Thou, who form'st thy creature's mind With thoughts that chasten and that cheer, Grant me to fill my space assigned For sojourning a stranger here With holy hope and filial fear: There, before Thee, the Great, the Good, And life in bliss unites whom death no more shall part. WHAT is true knowledge?-Is it with keen eye Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky; Creation's wonders; and Redemption's plan; Whence came we; what to do; and whither go: This is true knowledge, and "the whole of man." THE LORD'S DAY. HAIL to the day, which He, who made the heaven, Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given Arose! That day his Church hath still confessed, The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed, THE HOUSE OF GOD. Ir is the Sabbath bell, which calls to prayer, Even to the House of God, the hallowed dome, Where He who claims it bids his people come To bow before his throne, and serve Him there |