Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well prepared by ignorance and sloth,
By infidelity and love o' th' world,

To make God's work a sinecure: a slave
To his own pleasures, and his patron's pride-
From such apostles, O ye mitred heads,

Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands
On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn!

SONNET TO

By BRYANT.

Ay, thou art for the grave: thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Seal'd in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
Nor the vex'd ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,

As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again!

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf!
A voice in every rill!

A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air;
A tongue that's never still!

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,

That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious-Life and Death,
Time and Eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forests hoar,
When winds are piping loud.

I see Him, hear Him everywhere,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall,
At the dead hour of night.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betray'd:
I feel Him in the gentle showers,
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine, and the shade.

And yet (ungrateful that I am!)
I've turn'd in sullen mood
From all these things, whereof He said,
When the great whole was finished,
That they were 66 very good."

My sadness on the loveliest things
Fell like unwholesome dew.
The darkness that encompass'd me,
The gloom I felt so palpably,
Mine own dark spirit threw.

Yet He was patient-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked

By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked.

And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart-

Not always so-I woke again,

To join Creation's rapturous strain,

"O Lord, how good Thou art!"

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,

And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispell'd that miserable mood
Of darkness and of doubt.

SABBATH MORNING.

By WILLIAM BYRNE.

'TIS Sabbath morn!-the solemn sound of bells
Is borne upon the quiet holy breeze,
From hallow'd churches, that in yonder dells

Lift up their heads, half hidden by the trees,-
The birds, methinks, sing with a sweeter lay,

-

And that the sun shines brighter on the Sabbath day!

The streamlet with a clearer ripple flows

The very flowers a richer perfume yield :

Even the cawing of the stately crows

That undisturb'd strut o'er the new-plough'd field Seems musical to me, while in the grove

With a more dreamy sound the rustling branches move!

All toil is o'er--I miss the blacksmith's stroke-
The anvil's ring-the carter's noisy song-
The forge's roar-and e'en its wreath of smoke
Now curls no more yon fir-tree boughs among:-
The noisy mill, too, for a time doth cease,
And all things tell alone of rest and holy peace!

But now the bells are silent ;-and appear-
(Within that sacred building old and gray)--
The honest rustics, who are met to hear

-

The word of God, and keep his Holy day!'Tis sweet to see the group assembled thereThe youth-and timid maid-and those with silver hair!

Through the stain'd windows the glad sunshine streams Upon the Gothic pillars,- -worn and old,

And on each fretted arch, until it seems

That they are built of precious stones and gold!— And casting on the floor, in colours faint,

The shadowy outline of some rudely pictured saint!

Though few they are and simple there that raise Their voice to heaven responding to the prayerNor pealing organ mingles with their praise-

Yet think not thou that God the less is there!
For He hath said "Wherever two or three
Are gather'd in my name, there in the midst I'll be!"

Oh! there is something in a Sabbath morn-
As if a charm to this sweet time were given-
To wean the mind from all that's earthly born,
And lift the heart adoringly to Heaven-
Making the spirit strive to break the chain
That binds it to this life of chequer'd joy and pain!

FUNERAL HYMN.

Published in the Irish Ecclesiastical Journal.

FATHER! our human hearts are darken'd
With shadows from the land of death,
Although our outward ears have hearken'd
And known that thus the Spirit saith:

"Blest are the dead in Jesus dying,
From grief and labour resting well,
They hear no more the voice of crying,
They fear no more for death or hell."

Thou who didst wake the little maiden,
Thou who didst raise the four days' dead,
Thou who that mother, sorrow laden,
Didst gently bid "be comforted."

Thou by the Eternal Spirit quicken'd,
Who did'st thy body's shrine uprear,
Saviour! our human hearts are sicken'd,-
It is so cold and silent here.

Lord! by that little blossom lifted,
In thy dear hand to second spring,
Lord! by those dust-dimm'd eyelids gifted
To see the light, "a pleasant thing."

Lord! by that look so strong and tender
Cast on the widow's only son;
And by thy resurrection splendour,
The darkness of the grave is done.

The dead in Jesus wear a fetter;
Our full redemption shall make fall
Their souls with Christ, which is "far better,"
Their bodies waiting for thy call.

WHAT A SERMON SHOULD BE.

It should be brief; if lengthy, it will steep
Our hearts in apathy, our eyes in sleep;
The dull will yawn, the chapel-lounger doze,
Attention flag, and memory's portals close.

It should be warm; a living altar coal,
To melt the icy heart and charm the soul;
A sapless, dull harangue, however read,
Will never rouse the soul, or raise the dead.

It should be simple, practical, and clear;
No fine-spun theory to please the ear;
No curious lay to tickle letter'd pride,
And leave the poor and plain unedified.

It should be tender and affectionate,

As his warm theme who wept lost Salem's fate;
The fiery laws, with words of love allay'd,
Will sweetly warm and awfully persuade.

It should be manly, just, and rational,
Wisely conceived, and well express'd withal;
Not stuff'd with silly notions, apt to stain
A sacred desk, and show a muddy brain.

It should possess a well-adapted grace,
To situation, audience, time, and place;
A sermon form'd for scholars, statesmen, lords,
With peasants and mechanics ill accords.

It should with evangelic beauties bloom,
Like Paul's at Corinth, Athens, or at Rome;