EST! how sweet the sound! It is melody to my ears! It lies as a reviving cordial at my heart, and from thence sends forth lively spirits which beat through all the pulses of my soul! Rest, not as the stone that rests on the earth, nor as this flesh shall rest in the grave, nor such a rest as the carnal world desires. O blessed rest!

when we rest not day and night saying, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty:" when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from suffering and sorrow, but not from joy! O blessed day! when I shall rest with God! when I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord! when my perfect soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most perfect God! when God, who is love itself, shall perfectly love me, and rest in this love to me, as I shall rest in my love to Him; and rejoice over me with joy, and joy over me with singing, as I shall rejoice in Him!

This is that joy which was procured by sorrow, that crown which was procured by the Cross. My Lord wept that now my tears might be wiped away; He bled that I might now rejoice; he was forsaken that I might not now be forsook; He then died that I might now live. O free mercy, that car exalt so vile a wretch! Free to me, though dear to Christ: free grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken. This is not

546

A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL.

like our cottages of clay, our prisons, our earthly dwellings. This voice of joy is not like our old complaints, our impatient groans and sighs; nor this melodious praise like the scoffs and revilings, or the oaths and curses, which we heard on earth. This body is not like that we had, nor this soul like the soul we had, nor this life like the life we lived. We have changed our place and state, our clothes and thoughts, our looks, language, and company. Before, a saint was weak and despised; but now, how happy and glorious a thing is a saint! Where is now their body of sin, which wearied themselves and those about them? Where are now our different judgments, reproachful names, divided spirits, exasperated passions, strange looks, uncharitable censures? Now are all of one judgment, of one name, of one heart, house and glory. O sweet reconciliation! happy union!

A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL.

ROBERT EMMET.

ET no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would have fought on the threshold of my country, and its enemy should only enter by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the dangers of a jealous and watchful oppressor, and the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country its independence-am I to be loaded with calumny, and not suffered to resent or repel it? No, God forbid!

If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concern and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, O ever-dear and venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a moment deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life.

My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice-the blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors that surround your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven. Be ye patient! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave; my lamp of

life is nearly extinguished; my race is run, the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world; it is the charity of its silence! Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth-then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I HAVE DONE.

THE LAW OF DEATH.

T

JOHN HAY.

HE song of Kilvany. Fairest she
In all the land of Savathi.

She had one child, as sweet and gay
And dear to her as the light of day.
She was so young, and he so fair,
The same bright eyes and the same
dark hair,

To see them by the blossomy way
They seemed two children at their
play.

There came a death-dart from the sky,
Kilvany saw her darling die.
The glimmering shades his eye invades,
Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades;
His warm heart feels the icy chill,
The round limbs shudder and are still.

And yet Kilvany held him fast

Long after life's last pulse was past,

As if her kisses could restore

The smile gone out forevermore.

But when she saw her child was dead

She scattered ashes on her head,

And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
And rushing wildly through the street,
She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet.

"Master! all-helpful! help me now!
Here at thy feet I humbly bow:
Have mercy, Buddha! help me now!"
She groveled on the marble floor,

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

THE LAUGH OF A CHILD.

LOVE it, I love it, the laugh of a child, | Floating off on the breeze, like the tones of a Now rippling and gentle, now merry