Tell me, my sacred soul,
O tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot
Where mortals may be blest,
Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,

There is perpetual spring, perpetual youth; No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, Famine, nor age, have any being there. MASSINGER & DECKER.

If God hath made the world so fair,
Where sin and death abound,
How beautiful beyond compare
Will Paradise be found?

MONTGOMERY.

Palms of glory, raiment bright,
Crowns that never fade away,
Gird and deck the saints in light,
Priests and kings and conquerors they
MONTGOMERY.

Jesus reigns, the Life, the Sun,

Of that wondrous world above;
All the clouds and storms are gone,

All is bright, and all is love:
All the shadows melt away
In the blaze of perfect day!

From the German of LANGE.

O! where the living waters flow
Along the radiant shore,

My soul, a wanderer here, shall know
The exile thirst no more!

And borne on eagle wings afar,

Free thought shall claim its dower, From every sphere, from every star, Of glory and of power.

MRS. HEMANS.

Far out of sight, while yet the flesh infolds us, Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, And of its bliss is nought more wondrous told us,

"Yes, in heaven."

ANONYMOUS.

No sickness there,

No weary wasting of the frame away,
No fearful shrinking from the midnight air,
No dread of summer's bright and fervid ray.
No hidden grief,

No wild and cheerless vision of despair,
No vain petition for a swift relief,

No tearful eyes, no broken hearts, are there.
ANONYMOUS.

ANONYMOUS.

O heaven is where no secret dread
May haunt love's meeting hour;
Where from the past no gloom is shed
O'er the heart's chosen bower;
Where every severed wreath is bound,
And none have heard the knell
That smites the soul in that wild sound-
"Farewell, beloved, farewell!"

MRS. HEMANS.

MRS. STOWE.

There smiles the mother we have wept ! there bloom

Again the buds that sleep within the tomb; There o'er bright gates, inscribed, "No more

to part,

bright,

To the hopes of the heart and the spirit's glad sight,

Is the land that no mortal may know.

O! who but must pine in this dark vale of

tears,

From its clouds and its shadows to go, To walk in the light of the glory above,

Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all.

MOORE.

O how welcome to the weary,
To the world-worn and opprest,
Skies with clouds no longer dreary,
Mansions ready for their rest!
“KNICKERBOCKER."

Here is no bootless quest;

The city's name is Rest;

Here shall no fear appal;

Here love is all in all;

Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire;
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire.

Lift, lift thy wondering eyes!
Yonder is Paradise,

And this fair shining band
Are spirits of that land!

And these that throng to meet thee are thy kin,
Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin!
The city gates unfold; enter, O enter in!
"LONDON MAGAZINE."

There shall the good of earth be found at last, Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;

Where love her crown attains, her trials past, And, filled with rapture, hails the "better land."

W. G. CLARK.

There, no more at eve declining,
Suns without a cloud are shining
O'er the land of life and love;

Heaven's own harvests woo the reaper,
Heaven's own dreams entrance the sleeper,
Not a tear is left the weeper

To profane one flower above. There no sigh of memory swelleth, There no tear of misery dwelleth,

Hearts will bleed or break no more;
Past is all the cold world's scorning,
Gone the night and broke the morning,
With seraphic day adorning

Life's glad waves and golden shore.
"LONDON REPOSITORY."

What is the heaven our God bestows?
No prophet yet, no angel knows;
Was never yet created eye
Could see across eternity;

151

152

There is a region lovelier far

Than sages tell, or poets sing, Brighter than noonday glories are, And softer than the tints of spring. It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose; No cloud obscures the radiant scene, And not a tear of sorrow flows.

TUCK.

'Tis hid from view; but we may guess How beautiful that realm must be; For gleamings of its loveliness,

In visions granted, oft we see. The very clouds that o'er it throw

Their vail, unraised for mortal sight, With gold and purple tintings glow, Reflected from the glorious light Beyond the river.

And gentle airs, so sweet, so calm,

Steal sometimes from that viewless sphere;

The mourner feels their breath of balm,

And soothed sorrow dries the tear.
And sometimes list'ning ear may gain
Entrancing sound that hither floats,
The echo of a distant strain,
Of harps' and voices' blended notes
Beyond the river.

"DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE."

HEAVENLY RECOGNITION.

I count the hope no day-dream of the mind, No vision fair of transitory hue,

The souls of those whom once on earth we knew,

And loved, and walked with in communion kind,

Departed hence, again in heaven to find.

Such hope to nature's sympathies is true; And such, we deem, the holy word to view Unfolds; an antidote for grief designed, One drop from comfort's well.

BISHOP MANT.

Friends, even in heaven, one happiness would miss,

Should they not know each other when in

bliss.

BISHOP KEN.