EDWIN BUCKINGHAM.

SPARE him one little week, Almighty Power! Yield to his Father's house his dying hour;

Once more, once more let them, who held him dear,

But see his face, his faltering voice but hear;
We know, alas! that he is marked for death,
But let his Mother watch his parting breath;
O, let him die at home!

It could not de;

At midnight, on a dark and stormy sea,
Far from his kindred and his native land,
His pangs unsoothed by tender Woman's hand,
The patient victim in his cabin lay,

And meekly breathed his blameless life away.

"Wrapped in the raiment that it long must wear,
His body to the deck they slowly bear;
How eloquent, how awful in its power,
The silent lecture of death's Sabbath-hour!
One voice that silence breaks-the prayer is said,
And the last rite man pays to man is paid;

The plashing waters mark his resting-place,
And fold him round in one long, cold embrace;
Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er,
Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more;
Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,
With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep."

Rest, Loved One, rest beneath the billow's swell, Where tongue ne'er spoke, where sunlight never fell; Rest-till the God who gave thee to the deep, Rouse thee, triumphant, from the long, long sleep. And You, whose hearts are bleeding, who deplore That ye must see the Wanderer's face no more, Weep - he was worthy of the purest grief; Weep-in such sorrow ye shall find relief; While o'er his doom the bitter tear ye shed, Memory shall trace the virtues of the dead; These cannot die - for you, for him, they bloom, And scatter fragrance round his ocean-tomb.

* Curiosity.

MOUNT AUBURN.

"There was a garden, and in the garden a new sepulchre."

WHAT myriads throng, in proud array,
With songs of joy, and flags unfurled,

To consecrate the glorious day,

That gave a nation to the world!

We raise no shout, no trumpet sound,
No banner to the breeze we spread;
Children of clay! bend humbly round;
We plant a City to the Dead.

For man a garden rose in bloom,

When yon glad sun began to burn; He fell and heard the awful doom "Of dust thou art - to dust return! "

But HE, in whose pure faith we come,
Who in a gloomier garden lay,
Assured us of a brighter home,

And rose, and led the glorious way.

His word we trust! When life shall end,

Here be our long, long slumber passed; To the first garden's doom we bend, And bless the promise of the last.

PRIZE PROLOGUE.

Recited at the Opening of the Park Theatre, New York, 1821.

WHEN mitred Zeal, in wild, unholy days,

Bared his red arm, and bade the fagot blaze,
Our patriot sires the pilgrim sail unfurled,

And Freedom pointed to a rival world.

Where prowled the wolf, and where the hunter roved,

Faith raised her altars to the God she loved;

Toil, linked with Art, explored each savage wild,

The lofty forest bowed, the desert smiled;

The startled Indian o'er the mountains flew,

The wigwam vanished, and the village grew;

Taste reared her domes, fair Science spread her page, And Wit and Genius gathered round the Stage!

The Stage! where Fancy sits, creative queen, And waves her sceptre o'er life's mimic scene; Where young-eyed Wonder comes to feast his sight, And quaff instruction while he drinks delight.— The Stage! that threads each labyrinth of the soul, Wakes laughter's peal, and bids the tear-drop roll; That hoots at folly, mocks proud fashion's slave, Uncloaks the hypocrite, and brands the knave.

The child of Genius, catering for the Stage,
Rifles the wealth of every clime and age.
He speaks! the sepulchre resigns its prey,
And crimson life runs through the sleeping clay.
The wave, the gibbet, and the battle-field,
At his command, their festering tenants yield.
Pale, bleeding Love comes weeping from the tomb,
That kindred softness may bewail her doom;
Murder's dry bones, reclothed, desert the dust,
That after times may own his sentence just;
Forgotten Wisdom, freed from death's embrace,
Reads awful lessons to another race;

And the mad tyrant of some ancient shore
Here warns a world that he can curse no more.

May this fair Dome, in classic beauty reared,
By Worth be honored, and by Vice be feared;
May chastened Wit here bend to Virtue's cause,
Reflect her image, and repeat her laws;
And Guilt, that slumbers o'er the sacred page,
Hate his own likeness, shadowed from the Stage.

Here let the Guardian of the Drama sit, In righteous judgment o'er the realms of wit. Not his the shame, with servile pen to wait On private friendship, or on private hate; To flatter fools, or Satire's javelin dart, Tipped with a lie, at proud Ambition's heart; His be the nobler task to herald forth Young, blushing Merit, and neglected Worth; To brand the page where goodness finds a sneer, And lash the wretch that breathes the treason here.