TH

MATTHEW V. 3- 10.

HERE is a dwelling-place above;
Thither, to meet the God of love,
The poor in spirit go:

There is a paradise of reft;

For contrite hearts and souls diftreft
Its ftreams of comfort flow.

There is a goodly heritage,

Where earthly paffions cease to rage;
The meek that haven gain:

There is a board, where they who pine,
Hungry, athirst, for grace divine,
May feaft, nor crave again.

There is a voice to mercy true;
To them who mercy's path pursue
That voice fhall bliss impart :
There is a fight from man concealed;
That fight, the face of God revealed,
Shall bless the pure in heart.

There is a name, in heaven bestowed;
That name, which hails them sons of God,
The friends of peace fhall know:

There is a kingdom in the sky,

Where they shall reign with God on high,
Who serve Him beft below.

Lord! be it mine like them to choose

The better part, like them to use

The means Thy love hath given.

Be holiness my aim on earth,
That death be welcomed as a birth
To life and bliss in Heaven!

Bishop R. Mant. 1831.

THE CITY OF REST.

"And the name of that city is reft."

BIRDS from out the east, O birds from out the

O weft,

Have ye found that happy city in all your weary queft? Tell me, tell me, from earth's wandering may the heart find glad surcease,

Can ye fhow me as an earnest any olive-branch of peace?

I am weary of life's troubles, of its fin and toil and

care;

I am faithless, crushing in my heart so many a fruitless

prayer.

O birds from out the east, O birds from out the west, Can ye tell me of that city the name of which is Rest?

Say, doth a dreamy atmosphere that blefféd city crown? Are there couches spread for fleeping softer than the eider-down?

Does the filver sound of waters, falling 'twixt its marble

walls,

Hufh its solemn filence even into ftiller intervals?

Doth the poppy fhed its influence there, or doth the fabled moly

With its leafy-laden Lethe lade the eyes with slumber holy?

Do they never wake to sorrow, who, after toilsome quest,

Have entered in that city, the name of which is Rest?

Doth the fancy wile not there for aye? Is the restless soul's endeavor

Hushed in a rhythm of solemn calm, forever and forever?
Are human natures satisfied of their intense defire?
Is there no more good beyond to seek, or do they not
aspire?

But weary, weary of the ore within its yellow sun,
Do they lie and eat its lotus-leaves and dream life's toil
is done?

O tell me, do they there forget what here hath made them bleft,

Nor figh again for home and friends, in the city naméd

Reft?

O little birds, fly east again, — O little birds, fly weft; Ye have found no happy city in all your weary queft. Still fhall ye find no spot of reft wherever ye may ftray, And ftill like you the human soul muft wing its weary

way,

There fleepeth no such city within the wide earth's bound,

Nor hath the dreaming fancy yet its blissful portals found. We are but children crying here upon a mother's breast, For life and peace and blessedness, and for eternal Rest!

Bless God, I hear a ftill small voice, above life's clamorous din,

Saying, Faint not, O weary one, thou yet mayft enter in ; That city is prepared for those who well do win the

fight,

Who tread the wine-press till its blood hath washed their garments white,

Within it is no darkness, nor any baleful flower

Shall there oppress thy weeping eyes with stupefying

power.

It lieth calm within the light of God's peace-giving

breaft,

Its walls are called Salvation, the city's name is Reft! Household Words.

MY

HOW LONG?

Y God, it is not faithleffness
That makes me say,

It is not heaviness of heart

That hinders me in song;

"How long?"

'Tis not despair of truth and right, Nor coward dread of wrong.

But how can I with such a hope
Of glory and of home,

With such a joy before my eyes,
Not wifh the time were come,

These years, what ages have they been!

This life, how long it seems!

And how can I, in evil days,

'Mid unknown hills and ftreams,

But figh for those of home and heart,

And vifit them in dreams?

Yet peace, my heart, and hush, my tongue; Be calm, my troubled breaft;

Each hurrying hour is hastening on

The everlasting rest;