C. P. CRANCH. [Born, 1813.] THE Reverend C. P. CRANCH is a son of Chief Justice CRANCH, of Washington, and was born on the eighth of March, 1813, in Alexandria, District. of Columbia. He was graduated at the Columbian | College, Washington, in the summer of 1831, and afterward studied three years in the Divinity School at Cambridge, Massachusetts. I believe he is now pastor of a church near Boston. THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. AND is the harmony of heaven gone? Hath it all died away, ere human ears Caught the faint closing hymn, far-off, and lone,The music of the spheres? Have the stars hush'd that glorious song of old, When the night shrunk to the far Occident, And morning gush'd in streaks of burning gold Up the grey firmament? Yon orbs that watch so fixedly above, Yon planets claiming with our own their birth, Are they all mute as through the abyss they move, Like our dim, silent earth? And hath the sky, the deep, mysterious sky, No voices from amid yon circling throng? Are there no thundering echoes where the high Procession rolls along? Hath heaven rare changing tints, and doth it glow And all that makes the love of beauty grow, No music there, where music's font hath been- The choral stream of song? Is it a fable all of early time, That the young stars, as they leap'd by our earth, Rang sweet and loud a deep and voice-like chime, Ere the first soul had birth? And was the sage's thought a fiction too, That the crystalline spheres that closed us round, Murmur'd from all their moving arches blue A never-ceasing sound? Too fine and too sublime for mortal ears In our dull orb of clay-and this is why Come pealing through the sky?* It was the notion of PYTHAGORAS, I think, that the heavens were composed of a series of crystal spheres, transparent and enclosed one within another, and that these moving against each other produced the most divine harmony conceivable, but that the reason it was not heard by mortals was, that it was too loud and sublime to be heard, and the ear too small to take cognisance of it. Did they not come to them who talk'd with God, Did they not fall in choral symphony On the rapt wonder of the Nomad swain, As, stretch'd beside his flock, he raised his eye At midnight from the plain? Did all the wise and holy men of old Watch by yon burning stars in vain, to claim If, O ye orbs, ye never yet have spoken And let me trace in all things beautiful A natural harmony, that soothes, upraises; THE BLIND SEER. FROM morn till night the old man sitteth still; A pure, deep realm of praise and lowly prayer, Where faith from sight no pension e'er receiveth, But groweth only from the All-True and Fair. That Universal Soul, who is the being, The reason and the heart of men on earth, Shineth so broad o'er him, that, though not seeing, He walketh where the morning hath its birth. He travelleth where the upper springs flow on; He heareth harmonies from angel-choirs; He seeth Uriel standing in the sun; He dwelleth up among the heavenly fires. And yet he loveth, as we all do love, To hear the restless hum of common life; Though planted in the spirit-soil above, His leaves and flowers do bud amid the strife Of all this weary world, and shine more fair Than sympathies which have no inward root, Which open fast, but shrink in bleaker air, And, dropping, leave behind no winter-fruit. But here are winter-fruits and blossoms too; Those silver hairs o'er bended shoulders curl'd, That smile, that thought-fill'd brow, ope to the view Some symbol of the old man's inner world. O, who would love this wondrous world of sense, Though steep'd in joy and ruled by beauty's queen, If it were purchased at the dear expense Of losing all which souls like this have seen? Nay, if we judged aright, this glorious all, Which fills like thought our never-doubting eyes, Might with its firm-built grandeur sink and fall Before one ray of soul-realities. THE HOURS. THE hours are viewless angels, And bear each minute's record up And we, who walk among them, As one by one departs, Like summer-bees, that hover The poison or the nectar The heart's deep flower-cups yield, And some flit by on pinions Of joyous gold and blue, And some flag on with drooping wings But still they steal the record, And as we spend each minute That God to us hath given, The deeds are known before His throne, The tale is told in heaven. These bee-like hours we see not, Nor hear their noiseless wings; We only feel, too oft, when flown, That they have left their stings. So, teach me, Heavenly Father, To meet each flying hour, So, when death brings its shadows, STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech; Mind with mind did never meet: Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scatter'd lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer-stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scatter'd stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth; We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorb'd again, Melting, flowing into one. MY THOUGHTS. MANY are the thoughts that come to me And they drift so strange and swift, Which to follow, for to leave Any, seems a losing. When they come, they come in flocks, In autumnal weather, From the sheltering heather. There are thoughts that o'er me steal, Some have dark and drooping wings, Could see no cloudy morrow, Must from the other borrow. One by one they come to me On their destined mission; One by one I see them fade With no hopeless vision; For they've led me on a step To their home Elysian. BEAUTY. SAY, where does beauty dwell? Were moving in the light Of mirrors and of lamps. With music and with flowers, Danced on the joyous hours; And fairest bosoms Heaved happily beneath the winter-roses' blossoms: And it is well; Youth hath its time, Merry hearts will merrily chime. The tones were sweet to the ear, But there's beauty more rare to me, I stood in the open air, The beautiful stars were over my head, The crescent moon hung over the west: Beauty o'er river and hill was spread, Wooing the feverish soul to rest: All was sweet to the ear: But there's beauty more fair to me- I sat in my room alone. My heart began a tone: Its soothing strains were such Were visiting its chords. Deep and solemn mysteries, And the faith that conquers time- Then the purposes of life Gleam'd up like a thing of beauty. Beauty shone in self-denial, In the sternest hour of trial In a meek obedience To the will of Providence In the lofty sympathies That, torgetting selfish ease, Blessings to the weary soul That hath felt the better world's control. Here is beauty such as ne'er Met the eye or charm'd the ear. In the soul's high duties then I felt That the loftiest beauty ever dwelt. HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. [Born, 1813.] HENRY T. TUCKERMAN was born in Boston on the twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn at Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer. In the spring after his return, he gave the results of his observation to the public, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "The Italian Sketch Book." This work was received with much favour, and passed to a second edition. The author resumed and, for a time, prosecuted his academical studies, but again experiencing the injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, for the Mediterranean; visited MARY. WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated, And yon bright star we hail, although its looming Celestial halos from thy gentle name: We inly paint as we would have things be, AS APHRODITE rose from out the sea; Who smiled upon me kindly day by day, In a far land where I was sad and lone? Whose presence now is my delight alway? Both angels must the same bless'd title own. What spirits round my weary way are flying, What fortunes on my future life await, Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing, Are all unknown,-in trust I bide my fate; Gibraltar and Malta, made the tour of Sicily, and, after a winter's residence at Palermo, crossed over to the continent. The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Florence, and returned to the United States in the course of the ensuing summer. In 1839 appeared from his pen "Isabel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage." Under the guise of a romance, it embraces many interesting descriptions and reflections incident to a Sicilian tour. For several years, he has been a contributor to our periodical literature, both in prose and verse. A selection from his writings, consisting of sketches, essays, and tales, was published in New York, in the autumn of 1841, under the title of "Rambles and Reveries." His style is graceful and correct, but not distinguished for vigour; and his thoughts and illustrations are pleasing and poetical. But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven, "T would be that MARY should my being cheer, Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, Be my dear household word, and my last accent here. THE RINGLET. THE statesman's cabinet was thickly strown The spring-lock of a secret drawer was touch'd, Ay, and the tear in that world-tutor'd eye? They may instruct thee,-for men call him GREAT: "RINGLET of golden hair! How thou dost move my very manhood now! As once thou didst above this care-worn brow. "Methinks it cannot be That thou art mine; yet, gazing, I do feel Like distant music, through my bosom steal. She who so fondly deck'd thee, day by day, From the green earth, for aye, has pass'd away! "O! what unconscious bliss Fill'd this lone breast when thou wert floating free, Wooing the breeze's kiss! Symbol of early joy, I welcome thee! "Would that the sunny hue That gilds thy silken threads so brightly o'er,Would that life's morning dew Might bathe my restless heart forever more! "Unto the spirit-land Could I, in being's brightness, have been borne,Had her fond, trembling hand From my cold brow this golden ringlet shorn; "Not, then, should I thus gaze, And sigh that time has weaken'd and made dim "Type of life's tranquil spring! Thy voice is rich and eloquently mild, The Teacher's echoing: "Become thou now e'en as a little child."" TO AN ELM. BRAVELY thy old arms fling Their countless pennons to the fields of air, Their panoply of green still proudly wear. As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, To battle sternly with the winter storm. Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky; That with a benison have pass'd thee by! Lone patriarch of the wood! And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay. When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, While the fresh-murmuring leaves To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free, O, hither should we roam, To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade. Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest; Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. When, at the twilight hour, Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam, The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream. Making a fairy hall, As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass; Then lovers haste to thee, With hearts that tremble like that shifting light, To them, O, brave old tree, Thou art joy's shrine-a temple of delight! TRI-MOUNTAIN. THROUGH Time's dim atmosphere, behold The shadow of each passing cloud They sloped in pathless grandeur then And rose upon the woodland plain In lonely majesty. The breeze, at noontide, whisper'd soft And midnight's wind, amid their heights, As on their brow the forest-king From far below his quick ear caught The moaning of the bay; The dry leaves, fann'd by autumn's breath, Along their ridges crept; And snow-wreaths, like storm-whiten'd waves, Around them rudely swept. For ages, o'er their swelling sides, Grew the wild flowers of spring, And stars smiled down, and dew-founts pour'd The moonbeams play'd upon their peaks, And thus, like altar-mounts they stood, |