Heav'n is a great way off, and I shall be
Ten thousand years in travel, yet 't were happy
If I may find a lodging there at last,
Though my poor soul get thither upon crutches.

I sat, one day, upon a stone,
’Rapt in a musing fit, alone,
And resting on my hand my head,
Thus to myself, in thought, I said
“How in these times of care and strife,
Shall I direct my fleeting life?
Three precious jewels I require
To satisfy my heart's desire:
The first is honour, bright and clear;
The next is wealth; but (far more dear!)
The third is Heaven's approving smile.”
Then, after I had mused awhile,
I saw that it was vain to pine
For these three pearls in one small shrine;
To find within one heart a place
For honour, wealth, and heavenly grace,
For how can one, in days like these,
Heaven and the world together please!

Gostick, from Walter Von Der Vogelweide.

As through the artist's intervening glass
Our eye observes the distant planets pass,
A little we discover, but allow
That more remains unseen than art can show:
So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve,
(Its feeble eye intent on things above,)
High as we may we lift our reason up,
By Faith directed, and confirmed by Hope:
Yet we are able only to survey
Dawnings of beams, and promises of day.
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight;
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light:
But soon the 'mediate clouds shall be dispelled;
The sun shall then be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated sublime on his meridian throne.


Friends, even in Heaven, one happiness would miss, Should they not know each other when in bliss.

Bishop Ken.


All hail! all hail! resplendent vault, so wondrously

display'd, Abyss, where the Eternal's hand the scattered scene

array’d; He gave them light; His mighty hand suspended them

alone; And ever from the chilling north, to India's sultry In every region of the west, and isle of southern sea, All raise, Oh! glorious firmament, their suppliant

glance to thee! Vast sea of air, with countless gems, I love on thee

to gaze! Oh empyreal space! Oh stars! I love your softened

rays; Mysterious torches; ye have made the universe so

bright! Yet from this temple far above, ye bring your bor

rowed light; What rapture fills thy spirit, borne on contemplation's

wing, What charms, oh, beauteous canopy! thy varied aspects

From the French of Anna H. P Le Chatelain


This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,

There's nothing true but heaven.
And false the light on glory's plume,

As fading hues of even,
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb:
There's nothing bright but heaven.


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. The world, in all its boasted grandeur proud,

In all its stores of dazzling splendour bright, Is but a transient, unsubstantial cloud,

Which the sun skirts with momentary light: Anon, the assailing winds impetuous rise,

Black lowers the tempest in the sullen sky; Before the driving blast the vision dies,

And all the vivid tints of splendour fly: Pass but a moment, every ray is gone; Nor e'en a vestige left where the bright glories shone. And shall we, for this visionary gleam,

Degenerate, swerve from Heaven's immortal plan? Give up, for vanity's light airy dream,

The nobler heritage reserved for man? Though rocks their cragged heads in ambush hide,

Though storms and tempests sweep the angry main, While Hope's fair star shines forth, auspicious guide,

E'en tempests, storins, and rocks oppose in vain. Safe, 'mid the ocean's iterated force, The sacred vessel shapes her Heaven-directed course.

Samuel Hayes.
There is an hour of peaceful rest,

To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast,

'Tis found above-in heaven!
There is a soft, a downy bed,

'T is fair as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest their aching head,
And find repose in heaven!


HELL. The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God. --Psalm ix. 17.

I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear : Fear him, which after he hath killed hath power to cast into hell.--Luke, xii. 5.

God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to hell, and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment.--II. Peter, ii. 4.

DIVINES and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart her several torments dwell.

Shakspere. Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.—Milton.

Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.


Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self place; but where we are is hell;
And where hell is, there must we ever be;
And, to be short, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

Will without power, the element of hell,
Abortive all its acts returning still
Upon itself;.........oh! anguish terrible!
Meet guerdon of self-love, its proper ill!
Malice would scowl upon the foe he fears;
And he with lip of scorn would seek to kill;
But neither sees the other, neither hears-
For darkness each in his own dungeon bars,
Lust pines for dearth, and grief drinks its own tears-
Each in its solitude apart. Hate wars
Against himself, and feeds upon his chain,
Whose iron penetrates the soul it scars,

A dreadful solitude each mind insane,
Each its own place, its prison all alone,
And finds no sympathy to soften pain.

J. A. Heraud.
I'll tell thee what is hellthy memory
Still mountained up with records of the past,
Heap over heap, all accents and all forms,
Telling the tale of joy and innocence,
And hope, and peace, and love; recording, too,
With stern fidelity, the thousand wrongs
Worked upon weakness and defencelessness;
The blest occasions trifled o'er or spurned;
All that hath been that ought not to have been,
That might have been so different, that now
Cannot but be irrevocably past!

Thy gangrened heart, Stripped of its self-worn mask, and spread at last Bare, in its horrible anatomy, Before thine own excruciated gaze! D. P. Starkey.

The day Will come, when virtue from the cloud shall burst, That long obscured her beams; when sin shall fly Back to her native hell; there sink eclipsed In penal darkness, where nor star shall rise, Nor ever sunshine pierce the impervious gloom.

In the human breast there dwell

Warring passions fierce and dark,
Making of their home a hell,

Of the soul a driving bark
On a wild tempestuous sea,
Till too oft 't is wrecked, and driven

Far away, far away!
Hear the pitying angels say-
Soul so lost, and tempest-tost,

Upon hell and death's bleak coast,
Far away from heaven!


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