DEATH found strange beauty on that polish'd
And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
The seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile,
So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal
The signet-ring of heaven.
How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main!
Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom; then, from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels
Half-wreck'd through gulfs profound. Moons wax
and wane,
But still that patient traveller treads the deep.
-I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers
With such a tardy movement, that it seems
Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds.
-They land! they land! not like the Genoese,
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come
From their long prison, hardy forms that brave
The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair,
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave,
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,
And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps
To this drear desert? Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the guide who call'd him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark
Hath spread her parting sail. They crowd the strand,
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link,
Binding to man, and habitable earth,
Is sever'd? Can ye tell what pangs were there,
With keen regrets; what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones? Long, with straining eye,
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness
Sank down into their bosoms? No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!
Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,
A loftiness, to face a world in arms,
To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay
On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood
Of slain affections, should they rise between
The soul and GoD. O ye, who proudly boast,
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these,
Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose
Their likeness in your sons. Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue, or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt
Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to GoD.
"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving ?"
YE say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;
That, mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
"Tis where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curl'd,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their conelike cabins,
That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown.
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust,
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.
THE Right Reverend GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years old, 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 conse
crated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. The church has few more active, efficient, or popular prelates.
Bishop DOANE's "Songs by the Way," a collection of poems, chiefly devotional, were published in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college-life. He has since, from time to time, written poetry for festival-days and other occasions; but he has published no second volume. His contributions to the religious literature of the country are more numerous and valuable.
ON A VERY OLD WEDDING-RING.
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.
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 flowersAnd 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:
All this it tells; the plighted troth—
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 chance,
"Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them.
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.
"RACHEL Weeping for her children, and would not be comforted."
HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls,
That voice of bitter weeping!-
Is it the moan of fetter'd slave,
His watch of sorrow keeping?
Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains,
That cry of lamentation!—
Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S Sons,
For Salem's devastation?
Ah, no-a sorer ill than chains
That bitter wail is waking,
And deeper wo than Salem's fall
That tortured heart is breaking:
"Tis RACHEL, of her sons bereft,
Who lifts that voice of weeping;
And childless are the eyes that there
Their watch of grief are keeping.
O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave
Her wasted form is bending;
From many an eye that weeps to-day
Delight may beam to-morrow;
But she-her precious babe is not!
And what remains but sorrow?
Bereaved one! I may not chide
Thy tears and bitter sobbing
Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing:
But be not thine such grief as theirs
To whom no hope is given
Snatch'd from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven.
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,
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 banish'd sleep: 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!
"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.
"And Moses cried unto the LORD, and the LORD showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."
By Marah's stream of bitterness
When MOSES stood and cried,
JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer,
And instant help supplied:
The prophet sought the precious tree
With prompt, obedient feet;
"Twas cast into the fount, and made
The bitter waters sweet.
Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,
Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine: "Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd
Thy faith in God to prove, And prayer and resignation shall Its bitterness remove.
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.
"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 boy-
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.
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 GoD 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 God 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!
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