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When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and thruws

His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! The woods and vales of England! is there not Far down the decp ravine the whirlwinds come, A magic and a marvel in their names ?

And bow the forests as they sweep along; Is there not music in the memory

While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, Of their old glory!-is there not a sound,

The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, As of some watchword, that recalls at night

Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! All that gave light and wonder to the day?

And when the tumult of the air is fled, In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, And summon to the spirit scenes that rose

There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye

Around the steep which bears the hero's name: itung like a tranced thing above the page

The stars look down upon them; and the same That genius had made golden with its glow

Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave The page of noble story-of high towers,

Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And castled halls, envista'd like the line

And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries

The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Had led before their hearths in dim arrayOf lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree,

Mount of the clouds! when winter round the

The hoary mantle of the dying year, That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm

throws Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves,

Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Rustling in gather'd music to the winds,

Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas !

”T is then we view thee with a chilling fear, The woods and vales of England! O, the founts,

Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue;

When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, The living founts of memory! how they break And gush upon my stirr'd heart as I gaze!

· Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own bue, I hear the shout of reapers, the far low

| To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded Of herds upon the banks, the distant bark

Of the tired dog, stretch'd at some cottage door,
The echo of the axe, mid forest swung,

And the loud laugh, drowning the faint halloo.
Land of our fathers ! though 't is ours to roam

0! wild, enchanting horn!
A land upon whose bosom thou mightst lie, Whose music up the deep and dewy air
Like infant on its mother's though 't is ours Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there,
To gaze upon a nobler heritage

Till a new melody is bornThan thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,

Wake, wake again, the night Though ours to linger upon fount and sky,

Is bending from her throne of beauty down, Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who

With still stars burning on her azure crown, Walk with a deeper majesty than thine,

Intense and eloquently bright.
Yet, as our father-land, o, who shall tell
The lone, mysterious energy which calls

Night, at its pulseless noon!
Upon our sinking spirits to walk forth

When the far voice of waters mourns in song, Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill And some tired watch-dog, lazíly and long Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale

Barks at the melancholy moon. And song of centuries, the cloudless years

Hark! how it sweeps away, When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf

Soaring and dying on the silent sky, Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod

With lone halloo and roundelay!
When all the landscape murmur'd to its rills,
And joy with hope slept in its leafy bowers !

Swell, swell in glory out!
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start

As boyhood's old remember'd shout.

O! have ye heard that peal,
Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian height From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,

Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, And spirits from the skies come down at night,

Like some near breath around you stral ! To chant immortal songs to Freedom there !

Or have ye in the roar Thine is the rock of other regions, where

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, The world of life, which blooms so far below, Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies, Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Where wings and tempests never svar ? Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow I Beneath the far-off'mountain, distant, calm, and slow.

Go, go-no other sound,

No music that of air or earth is born, Thine is the summit whers the clouds repose, Can match the mighty music of that horn, Or, eddying wildly, rouni duy cliffs are borne; On midnight's fathomless profound !





Sail on, thou lone, imperial bird,

Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; How is thy distant coming heard,

As the night's breezes round thee ring! Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun

In his extremest glory. How! Is thy unequallid daring done,

Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now? Or hast thou left thy rocking dome,

Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine, To find some secret, meaner home,

Less stormy and unsafe than thine ? Else why thy dusky pinions bend

So closely to this shadowy world, And round thy searching glances send,

As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd? Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest,

Thy eyry desolate, though high;
And lonely thou, alike at rest,

Or soaring in the upper sky.
The golden light that bathes thy plumes

On thine interminable flight,
Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs,

And makes the north's ice-mountains hright. So come the eagle-hearted down,

So come the high and proud to earth, When life's night-gathering tempests frown

Over their glory and their mirth • So quails the mind's undying eye,

That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun; So min seeks solitude, to die,

His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of power,

A cold and joyless lustre shines, And on life's pinnacles will lower

Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, O, the mellow light that pours

From God's pure throne-the light that saves! It warms the spirit as it soars,

And sheds deep radiance round our graves.

The jewell's crown and sceptre

of Greece have pass'd away; And none, of all who wept her,

Could bid her splendour stay.
The world has shaken with the tread

Of iron-sandall'd crime-
And, lo! o'ershadowing all the dead,

The conqueror stalks sublime!
Then ask I not for crown and plurre

To nod above my land;
The victor's footsteps point to doom,

Graves open round his hand !
Rome! with thy pillar'd palaces,

And sculptured heroes all,
Snatch'd, in their warm, triumphal days,

To Art's high festival;
Rome! with thy giant sons of power,

Whose pathway was on thrones,
Who built their kingdoms of an hour

On yet unburied bones,
I would not have my land like thee,

So lofty-yet so cold!
Be hers a lowlier majesty,

In yet a nobler mould.
Thy marbles-works of wonder!

In thy victorious days,
Whose lips did seem to sunder

Before the astonish'd gaze ;
When statue glared on statue there,

The living on the dead,
And men as silent pilgrims wero

Before some sainted head!
0, not for faultless marbles yet

Would I the light forego
That beams when other lights have set,

And Art herself lies low!
0, ours a holier hope shall be

Than consecrated bust, Some loftier mean of memory

To snatch us from the dust. And ours a sterner art than this,

Shall fix our image here, The spirit's mould of loveliness

A nobler BELVIDERE! Then let them bind with bloomless flowers

The busts and urns of old,
A fairer heritage be ours,

A sacrifice less cold!
Give honour to the great and good,

And wreathe the living brow, Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood,

And pay the tribute now!
So, when the good and great go down,

Their statues shall arise,
To crowd those temples of our own,

Our fadeless memories!
And when the sculptured marble falls,

And Art goes in to die,
Our forms shall live in holior halls,

The Pantheon of the sky!


Italia's vales and fountains,

Though beautiful ye be,
I love my soaring mountains

And forests more than ye;
And though a dreamy greatness rise

From out your cloudy years, Like hills on distant stormy skies,

Seem dim through Nature's tears, Still, tell me not of years of old,

Or ancient heart and clime; Ours is the land and age of gold,

And ours the hallow'd time!


[Born 1799. Died 1859.)

The Right Reverend GEORGE W.DOANE, D.D., , Bishop Doane's « Songs by the Way," a collec LL.D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in tion of poeins, chiefly devotional, were published 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Sche in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced nectady, when nineteen years of age, and imme- during his college life. He has since, from time to diately after commenced the study of theology. He time, written poetry for festival-days and other oc was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, casions, but has published no second volume. His and priest hy the same prelate in 1823. He offi- | published sermons, charges, conventional addressciated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, es, literary and historical discourses, and other puband, in 1824, was appointed professor of belles let lications in prose, amount to more than one hun. tres and Oratory in Washington College, Connec- dred, and fill more than three thousand octavo ticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon pages. His writings generally are marked by reafter was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Bos. | finement and elegance, and evince a profound ton. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of devotion to the interests of the Protestant EpiscoNew Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. | pal Church.


THE DEVICE-Two hearts united.
THE MOTTO-“Dear love of mine, my heart is thine."

I LIKE that ring—that ancient ring,

Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy,

As were the sterling hearts of old. I like it—for it wafts me back,

Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days,

The men and days of deeds sublime.

| Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,

Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God, In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,

These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires,

Their strength might fail, mið life's bleak weather
Still, hand in hand, they travellid on-

Kind souls! they slumber now together.
I like its simple poesy too :

« Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" Thine, when the dark storm howls along,

As when the cloudless sunbeams shine.
“This heart is thine, mine own dear love !"

Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,

Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.
Remnant of days departed long,

Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,

Of heartfelt, holy love the token:
What varied feelings round it cling!.
For these I like that ancient ring.

But most I like it, as it tells

The tale of well-requited love; How youthful fondness persevered,

And youthful faith disdain'd to roveHow warmly he his suit preferr'd,

Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his “fair and blooming bride."


How, till the appointed day arrived,

They blamed the lazy-footed hoursHow, then, the white-robed maiden train

Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers-
And how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,

Which bind the husband to his bride:

JEREMIAH xxtil. 29.

All this it tells; the plighted trotl:

The gift of every earthly thing-
The hand in hand-the heart in heart-

For this I like that ancient ring.
I like its old and quaint device;
«Two blended hearts"-though time may wear

them, No mortal change, no mortal ciance, Till death," shall e'er in sinder tear them.

SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke
The rocks are rent- the heart is broke-
I hear thy pond'rous echoes ring,
And fall, a crushed and crumbled thing.
Meekly, these mercies I imploro,
Through Him whose cross our sorrow bore:
On earth, thy new-creating grace;
In heaven, the very lowest place.
Oh, might I be a living stone,
Set in the pavement of thy throne !
For sinner saved, what place so meet,
As at the SAVIOUR's bleeding feet!

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But, beam on whomse'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendours may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light,

There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heartWhat power, the trembling tear to start! The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day :
But, O! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!

u Stand, like an anvil," when the stroke

Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast: Storms but more deeply root the oak,

Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. . “Stand like an anvil," when the sparks

Fly, far and wide a fiery shower; Virtue and truth must still be marks,

Where malice proves its want of power. “Stand, like an anvil," when the bar

Lies, red and glowing, on its breast : Duty shall be life's leading star,

And conscious innocence its rest. "Stand like an anvil," when the sound

Of ponderous hammers pains the ear: Thinc, but the still and stern rebound

Of the great heart that cannot fear. “Stand, like an anvil;” noise and beat

Are born of earth, and die with time: The soul, like God, its source and seat,

Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.


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'Twas an hour of fearful issues,

When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,

By that old Thessalian flood; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves ! And, O! that oath was nobly kept :

From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight

Which valour had begun; Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood Ran down and mingled with the food, And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. 0, yes, that oath was nobly kept,

Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart

The sveman's fetters spurn;
And firmly was the fight maintain'd,
And amply was the triumph gain'd;
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee :


Caat silent moon, that silent moon,

Careering now through cloudless sky, O! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth ! How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,

And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen!
But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'a,

And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon thal silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,

The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes-

The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has baigsh'd sler : O! softly beams her gentle eye On those who mourn, and those who die!

Sweet Robin, I have heard them say, That thou wert there, upon the day, The Christ was crown'd in cruel scorn; And bore away one bleeding thorn, That, so, the blush upon thy breast, In shameful sorrow, was imfressed; And thence thy genial sympathy, With our redeemed humanity. Sweet Robin, would that I might ve, Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, The bleeding blazon of the cross; Live, ever, with thy loving mind, In fellowship with human kind; And take my pattern still from thee, In gentleness and constancy. * I have somewhere met with an old legend, that a robia hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our desi Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood; and that from that time robins have been the friends of mau


Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,
With the look and the voice of our darling boy-

Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts What is that, Mother!—The lark, my child

He had twined about with his infant arts, The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,

To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, In the golden orb of his little star: And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,

There he rejoiceth in light, while we
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,

Long to be happy and safe as he.
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;

Wiping the tears which unbidden start
What is that, Mother?—The dove, my son! - From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,

Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,

Till, risen with CARIST, we come to be, As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,

Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?—The eagle, boy !-

Tais placid lake, my gentle girl, Proudly careering his course of joy;

Be emblem of thy life, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,

As full of peace and purity, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,

As free from care and strife; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,

No ripple on its tranquil breast He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. i

That dies not with the day, Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,

No pebble in its darkest depths, Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

But quivers in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form What is that, Mother!—The swan, my love!-

And pageant of the skies, He is floating down from his native grove,

Reflected from its glassy face, No loved one now, no nestling nigh,

A mirror'd image lies; He is floating down, by himself to die;

So be thy spirit ever pure, Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,

To God and virtue given, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

And thought, and word, and action bear Live so, my love, that when death shall come,

The imagery of heaven. Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.



« Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYX, 1656.

BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless ?

Lift not thou the wailing voice,

Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,

Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing!
Pour not thou the bitter tear;

Heaven its book of comfort opeth;
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,

But, as one who alway hopeth,
Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in Jesus dying,
Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,
Why should thine with tears be gushing!
They who die in Christ are bless'd,

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!
Sweetly with their Gop they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,
Love that to the end endureth,
And, through Christ, the crown secureth!

Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,
To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies ;
Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile,
With tnat infant look and angel smile.

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