ENGLISH SCENERY.

THE Woods and vales of England!—is there not
A magic and a marvel in their names?
Is there not music in the memory

Of their old glory?—is there not a sound,
As of some watchword, that recalls at night
All that gave light and wonder to the day?
In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness,
And summon to the spirit scenes that rose
Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye
Hung like a tranced thing above the page
That genius had made golden with its glow-
The page of noble story-of high towers,
And castled halls, envista'd like the line
Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries
Had led before their hearths in dim array-
Of lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree,
That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm
Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves,
Rustling in gather'd music to the winds,
Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas!
The woods and vales of England! O, the founts,
The living founts of memory! how they break
And gush upon my stirr'd heart as I gaze!
I hear the shout of reapers, the far low
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 'tis ours to roam
A land upon whose bosom thou mightst lie,
Like infant on its mother's-though 'tis ours
To gaze upon a nobler heritage

Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,—
Though ours to linger upon fount and sky,
Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who
Walk with a deeper majesty than thine,—
Yet, as our father-land, O, who shall tell
The lone, mysterious energy which calls
Upon our sinking spirits to walk forth
Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill
Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale
And song of centuries, the cloudless years
When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf
Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers
Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod-
When all the landscape murmur'd to its rills,
And joy with hope slept in its leafy bowers!

MOUNT WASHINGTON.

MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there! Thine is the rock of other regions, where The world of life, which blooms so far below, Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far-off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, rouni y cliffs are borne;

When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! And when the tumult of the air is fled, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name: The stars look down upon them; and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee The hoary mantle of the dying year, Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!

THE BUGLE.

[throws

O! WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born

Wake, wake again, the night

Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense and eloquently bright.

Night, at its pulseless noon!

When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon.

Hark! how it sweeps away,

Soaring and dying on the silent sky,

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay!

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,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,
Like some near breath around you steal!
Or have ye in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,
Where wings and tempests never svar?
Go, go-no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,
On midnight's fathomless profound!

ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT.

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 unequall'd 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 bright.

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 man 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 wil! lower

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

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

And sheds deep radiance round our graves.

THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA.

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!

The jewell'd 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 plum.e
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 were
Before some sainted head!
O, not for faultless marbles yet
Would I the light forego
That beams when other lights have set,
And Art herself lies low!

O, 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 holier halls,
The Pantheon of the sky!

THE Right Reverend GEORGE W. DOANE, D.D., LL.D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years of age, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officiated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was appointed professor of belles lettres and Oratory in Washington College, Connecticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832.

Bishop DOANE's "Songs by the Way," a collec tion of poems, chiefly devotional, were published in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college life. He has since, from time t time, written poetry for festival-days and other oc casions, but has published no second volume. His published sermons, charges, conventional addresses, literary and historical discourses, and other publications in prose, amount to more than one hundred, and fill more than three thousand octavo pages. His writings generally are marked by refinement and elegance, and evince a profound devotion to the interests of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

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, mid life's bleak weather Still, hand in hand, they travell❜d 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.

MALLEUS DOMINI.

JEREMIAH xxii. 29.

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 implore,

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!

"STAND AS AN ANVIL, WHEN IT IS BEATEN UPON."

"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: Thine, but the still and stern rebound

Of the great heart that cannot fear. "Stand, like an anvil;" noise and heat Are born of earth, and die with time: The soul, like GOD, its source and seat, Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.

THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT 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'd,

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 that 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 barsh'd slec O! softly beams her gentle eye

On those who mourn, and those who die

But, beam on whomsoe'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 heart-
What 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!

THERMOPYLE.

'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 flood, And all, from mountain-cliff to wave, Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave. O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, Which nobly had been sworn, And proudly did each gallant heart The foeman's fetters spurn; And firmly was the fight maintain'd, And amply was the triumph gain'd; They fought, fair Liberty, for thee: They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

ROBIN REDBREAST.*

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 impressed ;
And thence thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.
Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
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 robit hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our dear Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood; and that from that time robins have been the friends of man

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?"

WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!—
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
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!—
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!--
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

A CHERUB.

"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 EVELYN, 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?

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 that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,

With the look and the voice of our darling ooy-
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts
He had twined about with his infant arts,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray
Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,
As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast

That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,

A mirror'd image lies;
So be thy spirit ever pure,

To Gon and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear The imagery of heaven.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

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 Gon 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!