Page images
PDF
EPUB

a religious point of view, as I have before hinted, the wilderness, in many places, has indeed "begun to blossom as the rose." "Instead of the thorn," has "come up the fir-tree; and instead of the brier," has "come up the myrtle-tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off."

Letter xii., from the West Indies.

RICHARD MANT, 1776-1848.

RICHARD MANT was born on the 12th of February, 1776, at Southampton, where his father, the Rev. Richard Mant, was rector of the church of All Saints. He was educated at Winchester College, and afterwards became a commoner of Trinity College, Oxford, from which he was elected a Fellow of Oriel in 1798. For a short time he acted as professor at this college, and afterwards travelled on the Continent. On his return to England, he became, in 1813, chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and in 1815 Rector of St. Botolph's, Bishopgate. In 1820, he was consecrated Bishop of Killaloe, and in 1823 was translated to the see of Down, Connor, and Dromare, which position he retained to the day of his death, which took place on the 2d of November, 1848.

Dr. Mant owed his rise in the church to his professional authorship, and few writers of the present century have been more industrious. In 1817, in conjunction with the Rev. George D'Oyly, Rector of Lambeth, he prepared an edition of the Bible, with a selection of notes from the best commentators of the Church of England. This was done at the expense of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, by which "D'Oyly and Mant's Bible" has been frequently reprinted. His other prose publications were mostly sermons and works of a religious character. He also published a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems ;" another entitled "The Slave, and other Poetical Pieces;" and another called "The British Months," a poem in twelve parts, full of piety and accurate observations of nature. But Bishop Mant is now most known for his hymns, some of which are among the most beautiful sacred lyrics in the language, and for his other small poems on sacred subjects, which have a high degree of merit.

TRUE KNOWLEDGE.

What is true knowledge?-Is it with keen eye
Of lucre's sons to thread the mazy way?

In the number of the "Gentleman's Magazine" for January, 1849, is a complete list of his works, which occupies nearly four columns.

Is it of civic rights, and royal sway,
And wealth political, the depths to try?
Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky;

To marshal nature's tribes in just array;
To mix, and analyze, and mete, and weigh
Her elements, and all her powers descry?

These things, who will may know them, if to know
Breed not vain-glory; but o'er all to scan
God, in his works and word shown forth below;
Creation's wonders, and Redemption's plan,
Whence came we, what to do, and whither go-
This is true knowledge, and "the whole of man."

THE LORD'S DAY.

Hail to the day which He who made the heaven,
Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest,
Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest!
Hail to the day when He by whom was given
New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,

Arose! That day His church hath still confest,
At once Creation's and Redemption's feast,
Sign of a world called forth, a world forgiven.
Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,

The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed,
And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase
In sanctity, and sweet repose bestowed;
Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease,
The rest remaining for the loved of God'

THE CHURCH BELLS.

What varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles
Sweep o'er the ear and claim the heart's reply!
Now the blithe peal of home festivity,

Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells;
Now the brisk chime, or voice of altered bells,
Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh:
And now the last stage of mortality

The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells.
How much of human life those sounds comprise-
Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb!
Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise,
Such as befit our being, free from gloom
Monastic-prayer that communes with the skies,
And musings mindful of the final doom.

THE DROP OF WATER.

"How mean 'mid all this glorious space, how valueless am I!"
A little drop of water said, as, trembling in the sky,
It downward fell, in haste to meet th' interminable sea,
As if the watery mass its goal and sepulchre should be.
But, ere of no account, within the watery mass it fell-
It found a shelter and a home, the oyster's concave shell;
And there that little drop became a hard and precious gem,
Meet ornament for royal wreath, for Persia's diadem.

Cheer up, faint heart, that hear'st the tale, and though thy lot may seem
Contemptible, yet not of it as nothing-worth esteem ;

Nor fear that thou, exempt from care of Providence, shalt be

An undistinguishable drop in nature's boundless sea.

The Power that called thee into life has skill to make thee live,

A place of refuge can provide, another being give;

Can clothe thy perishable form with beauty rich and rare,

And, "when He makes his jewels up," grant thee a station there.

PRAYER.

Ere the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;

Ere the silent evening close

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose

To lift your heart and voice in prayer

Be your first and latest care.

He, to whom the prayer is due,

From heaven, his throne, shall smile on you;

Angels sent by Him shall tend,

Your daily labor to befriend,

And their nightly vigils keep

To guard you in the hour of sleep.

When through the peaceful parish swells

The music of the Sabbath bells,

Duly tread the sacred road

Which leads you to the house of God;

The blessing of the Lamb is there,

And "God is in the midst of her."

And oh! where'er your days be past,
And oh! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Abroad, at home, in weal, in woe,
That service which to heaven you owe,

That bounden service duly pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.
He only to the heart can give

Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death.

He can, he will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell forevermore.

HORACE SMITH, 1780-1849.

HORACE SMITH, one of the accomplished authors of the "Rejected Addresses," was the son of Robert Smith, Esq., Solicitor of the Customs, and was born in London in the year 1780. His elder brother, James, who was his associate in the "Rejected Addresses,' "I and other literary productions, and whose Memoirs he edited in 1840, followed the profession of his father, and succeeded to his office of Solicitor. Horace was a stock-broker. The father at first discouraged the literary predilections of his sons, but ultimately assented to what could not be repressed.

Besides his part of the "Rejected Addresses," and some other very beautiful poetry, Horace wrote a number of historical novels; but, though popular for the time, they are now well-nigh forgotten, and it is hardly worth while to recall their names. He died at Tunbridge Wells, whither he had gone for his health, on the 12th of July, 1849.

The occasion of the "Rejected Addresses," called "one of the happiest hits in literature," was as follows: In 1812, the directors of the Drury Lane Theatre offered a premium of twenty pounds for the best poetical address, to be spoken on the opening of the new edifice. A casual hint from Mr. Ward, secretary to the theatre, suggested to the witty brothers, James and Horace Smith, the composition of a series of humorous addresses in imitation of the style of the principal authors of the day, and professing to be composed by them. They were but six weeks in writing them, and the work was ready by the opening of the theatre. Its success was almost unprecedented, for in ten years reached the eighteenth edition. The articles written by James Smith are in imitation of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Crabbe, &c., and those by Horace of Walter Scott, Moore, Monk Lewis, Lord Byron, &c. The amount of talent displayed by the two brothers was about equal. Horace wrote Nos. 1, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 15; and James the rest. The elder brother seems to have been satisfied with his part of this work, and never wrote much of decided merit after. For this reason I have not given him a place in this work.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade-
Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,

How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old that history's pages

Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent, incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;

« PreviousContinue »