THE HAPPIEST DEATH.

BEING THE NARRATIVE OF AN INCIDENT WHICH OCCURRED AT A DINNER PARTY.

"WHICH is the happiest death to die?"

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Oh!" said one, "if I might but choose,
Long at the gate of bliss would I lie

And feast my spirit, ere it fly,

With bright, celestial views.

Mine were a lingering death, without pain;
A death which all might live to see,

And mark how bright and sweet should be
The victory I shall gain.

"Fain would I catch a hymn of love,
From those angel-harps that ring above;
And sing it as my parting breath
Quivered, and expired in death,
So that those on earth might hear
The harp-notes of another sphere,
And mark, when nature faints and dies,
Where springs of heavenly life arise ;
And gather from the death they view
A ray of hope to light them through
When they should be departing too."

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"No,” said another, so not I;

Sudden as thought is the death I would die.

M

"I would suddenly lay my shackles by—
Nor bear a single pang at parting-

Nor see the tear of sorrow starting-
Nor hear the quiv'ring lips that bless me―
Nor feel the hands of love that press me—
Nor the frame with mortal terror shaking—
Nor the heart when love's soft bonds are breaking-
So would I die.

"All joy without a pang to cloud it—
All bliss without a pain to shroud it—
Not slain, but caught up, as it were,
To meet my Saviour in the air—
So would I die.

"Oh! how bright are the realms of light, Bursting at once upon the sight

These parting hours-how sad and slow."

His voice grew dim,—and fix'd was his eye
As if gazing on visions of ecstasy.
The hue of his cheek and his lips decayed,
Around his mouth a sweet smile played.
They look'd-he was dead!

His spirit had fled,

Painless and swift as his own desire!

The soul undress'd

From its mortal rest,

Had stepp'd in that heavenly car of fire!
And prov'd how bright

Were the realms of light

Bursting at once upon the sight.

ANONYMOUS.

SAINT PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

SAINT PHILIP NERI, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.

intend?

St. And, when your are one, what do you
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
St. Suppose it so—what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.

St. Well; and how then?

Y.

Why, cardinal's a high degree

And yet my lot it possibly may be.

St. Suppose it was, what then?

Y.

Why, who can say But I've a chance of being a pope one day?

St. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat, And triple crown, what follows after that?

Y. Nay, there is nothing further to be sure, Upon this earth that wishing can procure: When I've enjoy'd a dignity so high,

As long as God shall please, then I must die.

St. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best But wish, and hope, and may be all the rest!

Take my advice whatever may betide,

For that which must be, first of all provide ;

Then think of that which may be, and indeed,

When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.

DR. BYROM.

"THERE'S AYE SOMETHING BETTER BEFORE US."

IN the battle o' life, when new troubles oppress,

And fortune appears to disdain us;

When the weel-hoorded shillings are fast growin' less That only hard toil can regain us,—

We maunna sit down at the brink o' despair,

But gaze through the cloud that hangs o'er us,
And maybe, wha kens, we shall see written there,
"There's aye something better before us."
Although o' one evening o' happiness we
Hae naething at all to assure us,
And though o' the fruits of one puir labour-fee
There may be few dainties to spare us—
We maunna indulge in the grumbler's sin,
Lest angel Content should abhor us,
But crown wi' a glance at the regions above,
"There's aye something better before us."

When castles we build on the houp o' guid health,
Aft lameness or sickness deceives us;

And aften o'wark, aye the chief source o' wealth,
The word o'a maister bereaves us.

Sore, sore, is the grief such disasters may bring,
E'en though our kind neebors deplore us;
But sorrow leans lightly on hearts that can sing,
"There's aye something better before us."
Ye Great, wha puir Labour can grind at your will,
Unchecked by a conscience within ye,

I warn ye, defiant we look on ye still,

And free as the lark soar above ye.

In vain, the north blast o' your anger may blaw,
In vain, perched on pride, ye ignore us,

Until ye can tak' the sweet solace awa',

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There's aye something better before us.”

DAVID WINGATE.