"Will I be Happy?"

“A RESPECTABLE Roman Catholic farmer, the occupier of considerable land, and owner of many cows, &c., was very ill, and likely to die. The priest was sent for, and came; he received the poor man’s confession; helped him in the disposal of his property—a part given in alms to the poor, a part left to the church to say ‘masses for the repose of his soul;’ the residue to his wife and children. Then followed absolution, the last rites of the church, extreme unction, &c. ‘Is all done now?’ said the sick man. ‘All,’ said the priest. ‘Nothing more to be done?’ said the dying man. ‘Nothing more can be done,’ said the priest. ‘Where will I go when I am dead? Will I be happy?’ said the man. The priest was obliged to explain that he would go to purgatory. ‘A place of torment?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Fire?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you do nothing to save me from purgatory?’ ‘Nothing, you must go there.’ ‘For how long?’ ‘I cannot say.’ The priest could only tell him that he must be purified by fire, but that ‘masses’ said for him would bring him out the sooner, but how soon he knew not. The priest left. There was no one to speak of ‘the Lamb of God;’ no one to tell of Him who was delivered for our offenses, and raised again for our justification. No one to speak of JESUS as ‘the Way, the Truth, and the Life.’ The poor man went out of his mind as soon as he felt there was no hope. He lived three days, but the only word he uttered after the priest left, and that he uttered continually, was ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’” (Extracted from an old number of the Irish Church Record.)
“Hast thou admitted, with a blind, fond trust,
The LIE that burned thy father’s bones to dust,
That first adjudged them heretics, then sent
Their souls to heaven, and cursed them as they went.
The LIE that Scripture strips of its disguise,
And execrates above all other lies;
The lie that claps a lock on mercy’s plan,
And gives the key to you infirm old man,
Who, once ensconced in apostolic chair,
Is deified, and sits omniscient there;
The LIE that knows no kindred, owns no friend
But him that makes its progress its chief end;
That having spilt much blood, makes that a boast,
And Canonizes him that shed the most.
Away with CHARITY THAT SOOTHES A LIE,
And thrusts the TRUTH with scorn and anger by!
Shame on the candor, and the gracious smile,
Bestowed on them that light the martyr’s pile;
While insolent disdain, in frowns expressed,
Attends the tenets that endured that test!
Grant them the rights of men, and, while they cease
To vex the peace of others, grant them peace;
But trusting bigots, whose false zeal has made
TREACHERY THEIR DUTY, thou art self-betrayed.”