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Nor stooped their lamps th' enthroned fires on high;

A single silent star

Came wandering from afar,
Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky;

The Eastern Sages leading on,
As at a kingly throne,
To lay their gold and odors sweet
Before thy infant feet.

The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear
Bright harmony from every starry sphere;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song

From all the cherub-choirs,

And seraphs' burning lyres,
Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds

along ;
One angel-troop the strain began.
Of all the race of man
By simple shepherds heard alone
That soft Hosanna's tone.

And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame
To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came;
Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes;

Nor didst Thou mount on high,

From fatal Calvary,
With all thine own redeemed out-bursting from their

For Thou didst bear away from earth
But one of human birth,
The dying felon by thy side, to be
In Paradise with Thee.

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ;
A little while the conscious earth did shake
At that foul deed by her fierce children done ;

A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay, Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun :

While Thou didst sleep within the tomb,
Consenting to thy doom,
Ere yet the white-robed angel shone

Upon the sealed stone.
And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand
With devastation in thy red right hand,
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew;

But Thou didst haste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few:

Then calmly, slowly didst Thou rise
Into thy native skies;
Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.

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Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noonday pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembled at His doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died
To the felon at his side ;
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow !
Son of God ! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou !


the accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He?
By the last and bitter cry,
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chambers of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep :
Crucified ! we know Thee now;
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou !

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?
By the prayer for them that slew,
“Lord! they know not what they do!"
By the spoiled and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before His throne,
By the rainbow round His brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!


The chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire :
Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bowed.

The glory! the glory! by myriads are poured
The hosts of the angels to wait on their Lord ;
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear!

The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard :
So the depths of the stone-covered charnel are stirred :
From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north,
The vast generations of man are come forth.

The judgment! the judgment ! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met!
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word !

O Mercy! O Mercy! look down from above,
Creator ! on us, thy sad children, with love !
When beneath, to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven!

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I would not from the wise require

The lumber of their learned lore;
Nor would I from the rich desire

A single counter of their store.
For I have ease, and I have wealth,

And I have spirits light as air ;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth, -

A merry heart that laughs at care.

At once, 'tis true, two witching eyes

Surprised me in a luckless season,
Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs,

And quite subdued my better reason.
Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve,

And love you know's a reason fair,
And much improved, as I believe,

The merry heart, that laughed at care.

So now, from idle wishes clear,

I make the good I may not find;
Adown the stream I gently steer,
And shift

sail with


And half by nature, half by reason,

Can still with pliant heart prepare,
The mind, attuned to every season,

The merry heart, that laughs at care.

Yet, wrap



your sweetest dream,
Ye social feelings of the mind,
Give, sometimes give your sunny gleam,

And let the rest good-humor find.
Yes, let me hail and welcome give

To every joy my lot may share,
And pleased and pleasing let me live

With merry heart, that laughs at care.

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 “ Serinons,” 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.


Oh! come it first, or come it last,
The shadow o'er my passage cast,
Grant it may find me on my guard,
And at thy will, O God, prepared
To welcome the approaching gloom,
The deep dark stillness of the tomb !
'Tis but a transitory night:
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
Constrained in bitterness to bend ;
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.

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