Should kings as vassals attend thy nod,

Thou must die, and thy spirit return to God;

And how worthless are sceptres and thrones of power To a monarch's soul in his dying hour.

Say, what is thy hope? Dost thou pursue
Of pleasure the giddy round,

With the phantom of happiness ever in view,
Where true happiness never was found?
Oh! plunge not, in search after bliss supreme,
'Midst the whirlpools of pleasure's polluted stream:
Amidst her mad orgies, thou never canst find
Joys worth the pursuit of a rational mind;
Oh! fly her seductions, resist her control,

She poisons, debases and ruins the soul.

But what is thy hope? Dost thou pant to find
Of riches a treasure untold?

Thou never canst purchase peace of mind,
Nor a length of days, with gold.

It procures no exemption from worldly woe,
Nor will death, for a bribe, his prey forego:
Though thou hoard up wealth, and 'add field to field,'
No advantage in death will thy treasures yield,
Thou must leave thy possessions to other men-
And where will thy hope and thy soul be then?

Yet what is thy hope? Is it that which leads
The aspirants to glory forth,

To win for themselves by heroic deeds

The fleeting applause of earth?

Thou may'st couple thy name with high renown,
And send it to future ages down,

And men yet unborn may applaud the tale :
But what will their plaudits to thee avail,

When thy form shall be mould'ring amongst the dead,

And thy soul to the last great audit fled?

Then what is thy hope? Consider how high

Is thy destiny, think on the worth

Of a soul that is born for eternity,

Though it sojourn awhile upon earth.

Oh! why are the views of immortals confin'd
To narrower limits than heaven assign'd?
Why, when form'd to exist in a happier sphere,
Should we bury our expectations here,

And vainly seek for substantial good

In a world of unceasing vicissitude?

What is thy hope? Will it stand the test

Of nature's expiring hour?

Like armour of proof will it shield thy breast
Against the grim tyrant's power?

Will it gladden thy soul and dispel the gloom,
The horror of darkness that veils the tomb,
When the damps of death to thy brows shall start,
And the life-blood ebbs from thy freezing heart?-
Away with it else!-it is worse than vain
To cherish a hope that shall fail thee then!

But hope thou in God! To a dying hour
This hope sweet assurance brings,

When worldly preferments and wealth and power
Shall all be forgotten things.

Aye, hope thou in God, though a feeble worm:
And thy soul shall be safe, and thy confidence firm-
Thou shalt traverse in triumph the gloomy abyss
Which divides the eternal world from this-
And consigning in hope thy frail flesh to the sod,
Thy soul shall ascend to thy Saviour and God.

S. S. C.

NEWPORT, R. I.

THE PASSING BELL.*

THERE'S solemn warning in thy voice,
Thou deep-toned bell,

That on a thousand reckless ears
Pour'st thy sad knell.

Thou tell'st life's pilgrimage is o'er
With some lov'd one,

Whose struggling soul hath pass'd away

With yonder sun.

There is a sound of woe and wail

In thy deep tone,
Proclaiming sweet affections crush'd,

Fond hopes o'erthrown.

* In many parts of our country, it is the practice to toll the bell of the church, either on the death or at the funeral of those who die.

Oh now how many tender ties,
That twin'd the heart

In sacred ligaments of love,
Are rent apart!

How many now in bitterness

Of anguish weep, Echoing back thy notes with sobs 'Not loud, but deep!'

There is a warning in thy voice

Solemn indeed,

When for their souls with dying men
Thou seem'st to plead.

Awful, yet plaintively, to me

Comes thy deep toll,

As if the parted spirit's voice
Spake to my soul.

"Mortals!" it cries, "life's chequered scenes