SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [Born, 1785. Died, 1842.1 MR. WOODWORTH was a native of Scituate, in Massachusetts. After learning in a country town the art of printing, he went to New York, where he was editor of a newspaper during our second war with England. He subsequently published a weekly miscellany entitled "The Ladies' Literary Gazette," and in 1823, associated with Mr. GEORGE P. MORRIS, he established The New York Mirror," long the most popular journal of literature and art in this country. For several years before his death he was an invalid, and in this period a large number of the leading gentlemen of New York acted as a committee for a complimentary benefit given for him at the Park Theatre, the proceeds of which made more pleasant his closing days. He died in the month of December, 1842, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, much respected by all who knew him, for his | modesty and integrity as well as for his literary abilities. Mr. WOODWORTH wrote many pieces for the stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic life. He dwelt always with delight upon the scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was compelled to make his home amid the strife and tumult of a city. He was the poet of the "common people," and was happy in the belief that "The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never heard of "Thanatopsis." Some of his pieces have certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection might be made from his voluminous writings that would be very honourable to his talents and his feelings. There has been no recent edition of any of his works. THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!¦ The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, For often at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, far removed from the loved habitation, THE NEEDLE. THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; But give me the fair one, in country or city, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, While plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. If Love have a potent, a magical token, A talisman, ever resistless and trueA charm that is never evaded or broken, A witchery certain the heart to subdue"Tis this-and his armoury never has furnish'd So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart; Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnish'd, And Oh! it is certain of touching the heart. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with al!, You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, Each cheerfully active and playing her part, Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. ANDREWS NORTON. [Born, 1786. Dieu, 1853 J passed several months in England, and in 1830 resigned his professorship, to reside at Cambridge as a private gentleman. He now turned his attention to the composition and completion of those important works in criticism and theology which have established his fame as one of the greatest scholars of the last age. His "Statement of Reasons for not Believing the Doctrine of the Trinity" appeared in 1833; the first volume of his "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1837; a treatise "On the Latest Form of Infidelity," in 1839; the second and third volumes on the "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1844; The Internal Evidences of the Gospels," in 1851; and "Tracts on Christianity," in 1852. He died at his summer residence, in Newport, on the evening of the eighteenth of September, 1853; and his last work, a new " Translation of the Gospels," has been published since his death. He was the most THE late eminent scholar, ANDREWS NORTON, descended from the father of the celebrated JOHN NORTON, minister of Ipswich, was born in Hingham, near Boston, on the thirty-first of December, 1786. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1804; studied divinity, and for a short time, in 1809, preached in Augusta. Maine; spent a year as tutor in Bowdoin College; for another year was tutor in mathematics at Cambridge; in 1812 commenced the "General Repository," a religious and literary magazine, which he conducted with remarkable ability two years; in 1813 was chosen librarian of Harvard College,which office he held eight years; about the same time was appointed lecturer on the criticism and interpretation of the Scriptures, in the college, and on the organization of the Divinity School, in 1819, Dexter professor of sacred literature; in 1821 was married to CATHERINE, daughter of SAMUEL ELIOT, of Boston; in 1822 delivered an address before the university on the life and cha-able, ingenious, and thoroughly accomplished writer racter of his friend Professor FRISBIE, whose literary remains be afterward edited; in 1826, collected the poems of Mrs. HEMANS, and prepared for the press the first American edition of them; in 1828 ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. FAREWELL! before we meet again, I have to journey on alone; To breathe alone the silent prayer; But ne'er a deeper pang to know, Than when I watched thy slow decay, Saw on thy cheeck the hectic glow, And felt at last each hope give way. But who the destined hour may tell, But chance what may, thou wilt no more Or charm with friendship's kindest smile. All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, of the Unitarian party in America. What he was, and what he might have been, in poetry, is evinced by the following highly finished and beautiful productions. I shall not know thy soothing power. And stood, the guardian of my tomb. Servant of GOD! thy ardent mind, With lengthening years improving still, 'I was thine to drink of early wo, With patient smile and steady eye, To meet each pang that sickness gave, Servant of GOD! thou art not there; Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears? Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return We framed no light nor fruitless talk. We spake of knowledge, such as soars From world to world with ceaseless flight; And love, that follows and adores, As nature spreads before her sight. How vivid still past scenes appear! I feel as though all were not o'er; Whose setting sun I may not view, Thine will at last be heard anew. We meet again; a little while, And where thou art I too shall be. And then, with what an angel smile Of gladness, thou wilt welcon 3 me! HYMN. Mr Gon, I thank thee! may no thought E'er deem thy chastisements severe; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear Thy mercy bids all nature bloom; Full many a throb of grief and pain Thy frail and erring child must know; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow. Thy various messengers employ; A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er-How dense and bright In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, The soften'd sunbeams pour around Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth-from off the scene, With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on nature-yet the same- Hear the ricn music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above. She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of wvc. Drink in her influence-low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And aid this living light expire. ON LISTENING TO A CRICKET. I LOVE, thou little chirping thing, To hear thy melancholy noise; Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing Of summer past and fading joys. Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers, But dimly shows the lettered page And, musing o'er the embers pale Recall the many-colored dreams That fancy fondly weaves for youth When all the bright illusion seems The pictured promises of Truth; Perchance observe the fitful light, And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures feebly bright May lighten thus life's varied gloom. I love the quiet midnight hour, When Care and Hope and Passion sleep, And Reason with untroubled power Can her late vigils duly keep. I love the night; and sooth to say, A SUMMER NIGHT. How sweet the summer gales of night, Swept silent through the blue profound! There court cach wild and fairy dream; Or idly mark the volumed clouds Their broad deep mass of darkness throw, When, as the moon her radiance shrouds, Their changing sides with silver glow; Or see where, from that depth of shade, The ceaseless lightning, faintly bright, In silence plays, as if afraid To break the deep repose of night; Or gaze on heaven's unnumbered fires, While dimly-imaged thoughts arise, And Fancy, loosed from earth, aspires To search the secrets of the skies; What various beings there reside; What forms of life to man unknown, Drink the rich flow of bliss, whose tide Wells from beneath the eternal throne; Or life's uncertain scenes revolve, And musing how to act or speak, Feel some high wish, some proud resolve Throb in the heart, or flush the cheek. Meanwhile may reason's light, whose beam Dimmed by the world's oppressive gloom, Sheds but a dull unsteady gleam, In this still hour its rays relume. Thus oft in this still hour be mine The light all meaner passions fear, The wandering thought, the high design, And soaring dreams to virtue dear. A WINTER MORNING. THE keen, clear air-the splendid sight- 'Tis winter's jubilee: this day Her stores their countless treasures yield; See how the diamond glances play, In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field. The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged, The naked woods are seen no more; This earth to fairy-land is changed, With glittering silver sheeted o'er. The morning sun, with cloudless rays, His powerless splendor round us streams; From crusted boughs and twinkling sprays Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams. With more than summer beauty fair, The trees in winter's garb are shown: What a rich halo melts in air, Around their crystal branches thrown! And yesterday-how changed the view From what then charmed us; when the sky Hung, with its dim and watery hue, O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh! The distant groves, arrayed in white, Might then like things unreal seem, Just shown awhile in silvery light, The fictions of a poets' dream. O God of nature! with what might |