"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?" WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!— Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!- Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!- Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!- Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 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, Beautiful thing! thou art come in love, To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy, With the look and the voice of our darling boy- Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, LIFT not thou the wailing voice, Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth; Ours be, then, no thought of grieving! All their toils and troubles leaving: Love that to the end endureth, And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth! W. B. O. PEABODY. [Born, 1799.] THE Reverend WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820, he was established as a minister in the village of Springfield, Massachusetts, and has resided there since that time, discharging his professional duties, and occasionally writing for the North American Review and other periodicals. HYMN OF NATURE. Gon of the earth's extended plains! The dark, green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow. Gon of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. Gon of the forest's solemn shade! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. Gon of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power. Gon of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Gon of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright For every fire that fronts the sun, Were kindled at thy burning throne. GoD of the world! the hour must come, Her incense fires shall cease to burn; TO WILLIAM. WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER. It seems but yesterday, my love, I saw thee move with active bound, Far on the sunny plains, I saw Waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint That health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness, 'Twas like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years. Thanks for that memory to thee, My little, lovely boy,- I listen'd, as the mariner Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness! Alas! how could it be, That death would not forbear to lay In childhood's opening bloom, Was mine a happiness too pure For erring man to know? As when, in quick and cold eclipse, I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd; I saw thy light and graceful form And shudder'd as I cast a look Upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there, Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death Would never burn again; Scem'd gushing from the heart. And when I could not keep the tear To ask one more exchange of love, I never trusted to have lived I hoped that thou within the grave With trembling hand, I vainly tried With pain and grief oppress'd, Yes, I am sad and weary now; MONADNOCK. UPON the far-off mountain's brow I saw their dark and crowded bands In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands, And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I've seen him when the morning sun Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done, Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I've seen him at the midnight hour, When all the world were calmly sleeping, Like some stern sentry in his tower, His weary watch in silence keeping. And there, forever firm and clear, His lofty turret upward springs; He owns no rival summit near, No sovereign but the King of kings. The proudest works of human hands Outlasts the mightiest of them all. That flashes, and expires in blazing. And all the treasures of the heart, Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him; And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him. So should it be-for no heart beats The soothing words that make us blest. No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. Farewell! I go my distant way; Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day, May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form Inspire in me the firm endeavourLike thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever. THE WINTER NIGHT. "TIs the high festival of night! And mark the heaven's reflected glow And where the streams, with tinkling clash, The glittering ripples hurry past; And floating sparkles glance afar, And see, beyond, how sweetly still From every mountain's towering head The idler, on his silken bed, In gladness on the world below, DEATH. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold, "T is well; at such an early hour, The bright, young thoughts of early days And let me hear that gentle tread I go, but let no plaintive tone Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this? AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light! The wind breathes low; the withering leaf So gently flows the parting breath, How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! "T is like the peace the Christian gives When loved ones breathe their last. ROBERT C. SANDS. [Born, 1799. Died, 1832.] THE history of American literature, for the period which has already passed, will contain the names of few men of greater genius, or more general His life has learning, than ROBERT C. SANDS. been written so well by his intimate friend, GuLIAN C. VERPLANCK, LL. D., that I shall attempt only to present an abstract of the narrative of that accomplished scholar and critic. SANDS was born in the city of New York, (where his father, who had been distinguished for his patriotism during the revolutionary struggle, was an eminent merchant,) on the eleventh of May, 1799. At a very early age he was remarkable for great quickness of apprehension, and facility of acquiring knowledge. When seven years old, he began to study the Latin language, and at thirteen he was admitted to the sophomore class of Columbia College. He had already, under Mr. FINDLAY, of Newark, and the Reverend Mr. WHELPLEY, of New York, made great progress in classical knowledge; and while in the college, which had long been distinguished for sound and accurate instruction in the dead languages, he excelled all his classmates in ancient learning, and was equally successful in the mathematics and other branches of study. In his second collegiate year, in conjunction with his friend EASTBURN, and some other students, he established a periodical entitled "The Moralist," and afterward another, called Academic Recreations," of both of which he wrote the principal contents. He was graduated in 1815, and soon after became a student in the law-office of DAVID B. OGDEN, one of the most distinguished advocates of the time. He pursued his legal studies with great ardour; his course of reading was very extensive; and he became not only familiar with the more practical part of professional knowledge, but acquired a relish for the abstruse doctrines and subtle reasonings of the ancient common law. Still he found time for the study of the classics; and, in company with two or three friends, read several of the most difficult of the Greek authors, exactly and critically. His love of composition continued to grow upon him. He wrote on all subjects, and for all purposes; and, in addition to essays and verses, on topics of his own choice, volunteered to write orations for the commencement displays of young graduates, verses for young lovers, and even sermons for young divines. Several of the latter, written in an animated style, were much admired, when delivered in the pulpit with good emphasis and discretion, to congregations who little suspected to whom they were indebted for their edification. One of them, at least, has been printed under the name of the clergyman by whom it was delivered. In 1817 he published a poem, which he had begun and in great part writ- It was during the period of these studies, that 66 Neologist," which attracted much attention, and were very widely circulated and republished in the newspapers of the day. SANDS wrote a large portion of these, both in prose and verse. His friend EASTBURN had now removed to Bristol, Rhode Island, where, after studying diviGRISWOLD, he took orders, and soon after settled nity for some time under the direction of Bishop in Virginia. A regular correspondence was kept up between the friends; and the letters that have been preserved are filled with the evidence of their new metrical version of the Psalms, which the literary industry. EASTBURN had undertaken a pressure of his clerical duties and his untimely death prevented him from ever completing. SANDS was led by curiosity, as well as by his intimacy with EASTBURN, to acquire some knowledge of the Hebrew. It was not very profound, but it enabled him to try his skill at the same translation; and he from time to time sent his friend a Psalm paraphrased in verse. But amid their severer studies and their literary amusements, they were engaged in a bolder poetical enterprise. This was a romantic poem, founded on the history of PHILIP, the celebrated sachem 204 |