The Land which no Mortal may know.

THOUGH Earth has full many a beautiful spot,

As a poet or painter might show,

Yet more lovely and beautiful, holy and bright,

To the hopes of the heart, and the spirit's glad sight,

Is the land that no mortal may know.

There the crystalline stream bursting forth from the throne,

Flows on, and for ever will flow;

Its waves, as they roll, are with melody rife,

And its waters are sparkling with beauty and life,

In the land which no mortal may know.

And there, on its margin, with leaves ever green,
With its fruits healing sickness and wo,
The fair Tree of Life, in its glory and pride,
Is fed by that deep, inexhaustible tide,

Of the land which no mortal may know.

There, too, are the lost! whom we loved on this earth,
With whose mem'ries our bosoms yet glow;
Their relics we gave to the place of the dead,
But their glorified spirits before us have fled,

To the land which no mortal may know.

There the pale orb of night, and the fountain of day,
Nor beauty nor splendour bestow;

But the presence of HIM, the unchanging I AM!
And the holy, the pure, the immaculate Lamb!

Light the land which no mortal may know.

THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW.

Oh! who but must pine, in this dark vale of tears,

From its clouds and its shadows to go?

To walk in the light of the glory above,

And to share in the peace, and the joy, and the love,

Of the land which no mortal may know.

Life.

BERNARD BARTON.

WE are born; we laugh; we weep;

We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?

Why do we live, or die?

Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die?

We toil-through pain and wrong;

We fight and fly;

We love; we lose; and then, ere long,

Stone-dead we lie.

O life! is all thy song

"Endure and-die?"

BARRY CORNWALL.

Human Life.

How long shall man's imprison'd spirit groan
"Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth?
Where all worth knowing never can be known,

And all that can be known, alas! is nothing worth.

Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage,

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves,

We do not quit, but change our joys in age—

Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves.

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame,
Turmoil of action, tedium of rest,

And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim
How dull life's banquet is: how ill at ease the guest.

Known were the bill of fare before we taste,

Who would not spurn the banquet and the board

Prefer the eternal, but oblivious fast,

To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended sword?

He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd,

And he that braved the crater's boiling bed—

Did these a clearer, closer view command

Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they led?

HUMAN LIFE.

Or he that in Valdarno did prolong

The night her rich star-studded page to readCould he point out, midst all that brilliant throng,

His fix'd and final home, from fleshy thraldom freed?

Minds that have scann'd creation's vast domain,

And secrets solved, till then to sages seal'd, Whilst nature own'd their intellectual reign

Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have reveal'd.

Devouring grave! we might the less deplore

The extinguish'd lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore,

That might the enigma solve, and doubt, man's tyrant, quell.

To live in darkness-in despair to die

Is this indeed the boon to mortals given?

Is there no port-no rock of refuge nigh?

There is to those who fix their anchor-hope in heaven.

Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside:

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things aboveLow at the cross bow down-in that confide,

Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love.

C. C. COLTON

Rome.

AR sadder musing on the traveller falls

At sight of thee, O Rome!

Than when he views the rough sea-beaten walls
Of Greece, thought's early home;

For thou wast of the hateful Four, whose doom
Burdens the Prophet's scroll;

But Greece was clean, till in her history's gloom
Her name and sword a Macedonian stole.

And next a mingled throng besets the breast
Of bitter thoughts and sweet;

How shall I name thee, Light of the wide West,

Or heinous Error Seat?

O Mother erst, close tracing Jesus' feet!

Do not thy titles glow

In those stern judgment-fires, which shall complete
Earth's strife with Heaven, and ope the eternal wo?

KEBLE.