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Here indlustry to comfort led;
Her book of light here learning spread;

Here the warm heart of youth
Was wood to temperance and to truth;

Here hoary age was found,
By wisdom and by reverence crown'd.

No great but guilty fame
Here kindled pride, that should have kindled shame;

These chose the better, happier part,
That pour'd its sunlight o'er the heart,
That crown'd their homes with peace and health,
And weigh'd Heaven's smile beyond earth's

wealth;
Far from the thorny paths of strife
They stood, a living lesson to their race,

Rich in the charities of life,
Man in his strength, and woman in her grace;
In purity and truth their pilgrim path they trod,
And when they served their neighbour, felt they

served their God."

I've felt it all-as thou art feeling now; Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow, I've sat and watch'd by dying beauty's bed, And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed; I've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face, And vainly tried some comfort there to trace; I've listen'd to the short and struggling breath; I've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death; Like thee, I've veil'd my head in speechless gloom, And laid my first-born in the silent tomb.

I SEE THEE STILL.

“I rock'd her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grew old. The fond endearments of our earlier days We keep alive in them, and when they die. Our youthful joys we bury with them."

IXIX.
This may not wake the poet's verse,
This souls of fire may ne'er rehearse

In crowd-delighting voice;
Yet o'er the record shall the patriot bend,
His quiet praise the moralist shall lend,

And all the good rejoice.

I see thee still : Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night: In dreams I meet thee as of old : Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, And thy sweet voice is in my ear: In every scene to memory dear

I see thee still.

'This be our story, then, in that far day, When others come their kindred debt to pay.

In that far day?-0, what shall be,

In this dominion of the free,
When we and ours have render'd up our trust,
And men unborn shall tread above our dust?
0, what shall be?-He, He alone

The dread response can make,
Who sitteth on the only throne

That time shall never shake :
Before whose all-beholding eyes
Ages sweep on, and empires sink and rise.
Then let the song, to Him begun,

To Him in reverence end;
Look down in love, Eternal One,

And Thy good cause defend;
Here, late and long, put forth thy hand,
To guard and guide the Pilgrim's land.

I see thee still, In every hallow'd token round; This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, This silken chain by thee was braided, These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me ; This book was thine, here didst thou read, This picture, ah! yes, here, indeed,

I see thee still.

I see thee still : Here was thy summer noon's retreat, Here was thy favourite fireside seat; This was thy chamber-here, each day, I sat and watch'd thy sad decay; Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, Here, on this pillow, thou didst die: Dark hour! once more its woes unfold; As then I saw thee, pale and cold,

I see thee still.

LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER.

Young mother! what can feeble friendship say, To soothe the anguish of this mournful day? They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled, Know how the living sorrow for the dead; Each tutor'd voice, that seeks such grief to cheer, Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear; I've felt it all-alas! too well I know How vain all earthly power to hush thy wo! Gop cheer thee, childless mother! 't is not given For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven. ,

I see thee still : Thou art not in the grave confinedDeath cannot claim the immortal mind; Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, But goodness dies not in the dust ; Thee, O! my sister, 't is not thee Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; Thou to a fairer land art gone; There, let me hope, my journey done,

To see thee still

LINES ON THE DEATH OF M. S. C.

Sister and brother, and that faithful friend,
True from the first, and tender to the end, -
All, all, in His good time, who placed us here,
To live, to love, to die, and disappear,
Shall come ond make their quiet bed with thee,
Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree;
With thee to sleep through death's long, dream-

less night, With thee rise up and bless the morning light.

THE FAMILY MEETING.*

I knew that we must part-day after day, I saw the dread Destroyer win his way; That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, As on my ear its prophet-warning fell ; Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung, Eich sweet “Good night" fell fainter from thy

tongue; I knew that we must part—no power could save Thy quiet goodness from an early grave; Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they

cast, Looking a sister's fondness to the last; Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek, Thy voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak; All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart; The shaft had struck-I knew that we must part.

And we have parted, MARY-thou art gone! Gone in thine innocence, meek, suffering one. Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep So peacefully, it seem'd a sin to weep, In those fond watchers who around thee stood, And felt, even then, that Gon, even then, was good. Like stars that struggle through the clouds of

night, Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light, As if to thee, in that dread hour, 't were given To know on earth what faith belicves of heaven ; Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest, Nor one, one pang the awful change confess'd. Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face, And touch'd eåch feature with a new-born grace; On check and brow unearthly beauty lay, And told that life's poor cares had pass'd away. In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me! I ask no more than this to die like thee.

But we have parted, Marr-thou art dead! On its last resting-place I laid thy head, Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look ; Those marble lips no kindred kiss return'd; From those veil'd orbs no glance responsive burn'd; Ah! then I felt that thou hadst pass'd away, That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay; And then came Memory, with her busy throng Of tender images, forgotten long; Years hurried back, and as they swiftly rollid, I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old; Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew; Manhood was moved, and Sorrow claim'd her due; Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started; I turn'd away--and felt that we had parted.

But not forever-in the silent tomb, Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room; A little while, a few short years of pain, And, one by one, we'll come to thee again; The kind old father shall seek out the place, And rest with thee, the youngest of his race; The dear, dear mother, bent with age and grief, Shull lay her head by thine, in sweet relief;

We are all here!
Father, mother,

Sister, brother,
All wto hold each other dear.
Each chair is fill'd-we're all at home;
To-night let no cold stranger come:
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;

We're all-all here.

We're not all here!
Some are away—the dead ones dear,
Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:
Some like a night-flash pass'd away,
And some sank, lingering, day hy day;
The quiet graveyard—some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share-

We're not all here.

We are all here!
Even they-the dead-though dead, so dear;
Fond Memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view,
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remember'd face appears!
We see them as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They're rounu us as they were of old-

We are all here.
We are all here!
Father, mother,

Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
0! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So, in the world to follow this,
May cach repeat, in words of bliss,

We're all-al here!

Written on the nccidental meeting of all the surviring members of a family.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

163

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

Make this place to them the gate

Leading to thy courts on high. There, when time shall be no more,

When the feuds of earth are past, May the tribes of every shore

Congregate in peace at last ! Then to Thee, thou Ose all-wise,

Shall the gather'd millions sing, Till the arches of the skies

With their hallelujahs ring.

TO MY CIGAR.

Gar, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weg.

Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;.

Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs tnat sing
In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.

Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,
On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in you bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charins to feed, And Nature's own great God adore.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,

In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,

And lap me in delight.
What though they tell, with phizzes lor:g,

My years are sooner pass'd ?
I would reply, with reason strong,

They're sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild friend, to me thou art

A monitor, though still;
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,

Beyond the preacher's skill.
Thou’rt like the man of worth, who gives

To goodness every day,
The odour of whose virtues lives

When he has passed away.
When, in the lonely evening hour,

Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,

Man's fate in thine I see.
Oft as thy snowy column grows,

Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,

Thus tumbled to decay.
A while, like thee, earth's masters burn,

And smoke and fume around, And then, like thee, to ashes turn,

And mingle with the ground. Life's but a leaf adroitly roll'd,

And time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,

Gives all to dusty death.
From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe

One common doom is pass'd:
Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe.

Must all burn out at last.
And what is he who smokes thee now!-

A little moving heap,
That soon like thee to fate must bow,

With thee in dust must sleep.
But though thy ashes downward go,

Thy essence rolls on high ;
Thus, when my body must lie low,

My soul shall cleave the sky.

DEDICATION HYMN. God of wisdom, God of might,

Father! dearest name of all, Bow thy throne and bless our rite;

"Tis thy children on thee call. Glorious Orx! look down from heaven,

Warm each heart and wake each vow; Unto Thec this house is given;

With thy presence fill it now. Fill it now! on every sou

Shed the incense of thy grace, While our anthem-echoes roll

Round the consecrated place; While thy holy page we read,

While the prayers Thou lovest asce d, While thy cause thy servants plead,

Fill this house, our Gop, our Friend. Fill it now-0, fill it long!

So, when death shall call us home, Still to Thee, in many a throng,

May our children's children come. Bless them, Father, long and late,

Blot their sins, their sorrows dry;

SEBA SMITH.

(Born 1702. Dled 1808.1

SEBA SMITH was born in "Buckfield, Maine, on was married to ELIZABETH OAKES PRINCE, who the fonrteenth of September, 1792; graduated at has since been one of the most conspicuous literary Bowdoin College in 1818; and having studied the women of this country. In 1842 they removed to law, settled in Portland, where his literary tastes led New York, where Mr. Smith has published “Let. him to a connection with the press, and he edited ters of Major Jack Downing," « Powhattan, a Met. successively the “ Eastern Argus," and the Port- rical Romance," "Way Down East, or Portraitures land Courier.” It was during his residence in Port of Yankee Life,” “New Elements of Geometry," land that he originated the popular and natural cha &c. One of his earliest attempts in verse was racter of Major Downing," which has served more “An Auction Extraordinary,” frequently quoted frequently and successfully than any other for the il. | as LUCRETIA Maria Davidson's. Among his milustration of New England peculiarites, in speech nor poems several are dramatic and picturesque, and manners. When about thirty years of age, he l and noticeable for unusual force of description.

THE BURNING SHIP AT SEA.

Some, a moment to escape from the grave,

On the bowsprit take a stand;
But their death is near at hand-
Soon they hug the burning brand

On the wave.
From his briny ocean-bed,

When the morning sun awoke,
Lo, that gallant ship had flert!

And a sable cloud of smoke
Was the monumental pyre that remained;

But the sea-gulls round it fly,
With a quick and fearful cry,
And the brands that floated by

Blood had stained.

THE SNOW STORM.

The night was clear and mild,

And the breeze went softly by, And the stars of heavon smiled

As they wandered up the sky;
And there rode a gallant ship on the wave-

But many a hapless wight
Slept the sleep of death that night,
And before the morning light

Found a grave!
All were sunk in soft repose

Save the watch upon the deck ;
Not a boding dream arose

Of the horrors of the wreck,
To the mother, or the child, or the sire;

Till a shriek of wo profound,
Like a death-knell echo'd round-
With a wild and dismal sound,

A shriek of “fire!"
Now the flames are spreading fast-

With resistless rage they fly, Up the shrouds and up the mast,

And are flickering to the sky;
Now the deck is all a blaze ; now the rails-

There's no place to rest their feet;
Fore and aft the torches meet,
And a winged lightning sheet

Are the sails.
No one heard the cry of wo

But the sea-bird that few by :
There was hurrying to and fro,

But no hand to save was nigh;
Still before the burning foe they were driven-

Last farewells were uttered there,
With a wild and phrenzied staro,
And a short and broken prayer

Sent to Heaven.
Some leap over in the flood

To the death that waits them there ; nthers quench the flames with blood,

And expire in open air;

Tax cold winds swept the mountain's height,

And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wander'd with her child :
As through the drifting snow she press'u,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifting snow:

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was goize. “Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child !”. She stripp'd her mantle from her breast,

And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapp'd the vest

And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sonk upon her snowy bed.
At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ;
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale,
He moved the robe from off the child
The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled!

N. L. FROTHINGHAM.

[Bora, 1793.)

The Reverend NATHANIEL Langdon Froth discourses; in 1852 “Sermons, in the order of a INGRAM, D.D., was born in Boston in the sum Twelvemonth ;" and in other years, about fifty sormer of 1793, and was graduated at Cambru.ge in mons and addresses of various kinds. In 1855 ho the class of 1811. While a student there he pro has gratified his friends, and enriched our litcranounced the poem at the installation of Dr. KIRK ture by printing a collection of his poems, under LAND as president of the university, but his first the title of "Metrical Pieces, Translated and Oriprinted verses of any considerable extent were ginal.” che - Poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa A singular grace of expression and refinement Society” in 1813, which appeared in Mr. An- of sentiment pervade the prose writings of Dr. DREWS Norton's "General Repository." The FROTIIINGHAM, and his poetry is also marked by year before this he became an instructor in rheto exquisite finish and tasteful elegance. His works ric and oratory in the college, an office which he are among the best models of composition which was the first to hold, and in which he was suc- contemporary New England scholars will present ceeded by his friend J. M. Wainwright, after- | to posterity. The longest of his poems is a maswards bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church terly version of "The Phenomena or Appearances in New York. He remained in it till the spring of the Stars," from the Greek of ARATUS. His of 1815, when he was ordained as pastor of the translations from the German have been very highFirst Congregational Church in Boston. In this ly esteemed by the most competent critics for fidelpastorale he continued until ill-health compelled | ity to their first authors, and as English poems. him to resign it, at the same point of the year, He has exhibited what the Germans accomplished in 1850.

in their own language and what they would havo Dr. FromHINGHAM has been many years a con done in ours. His independent productions in tributor to the “Christian Examiner," and, less | verse are what might have been expected from a frequently, to some other periodicals. In 1845 | mind in contemplation and action subordinated so he published “Deism or Christianity” in four | instinctively and sedulously to the laws of beauty.

TO THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK,

SET UP IN A NEW PLACE.

Of homely duties and of plain delights,
Whose love and mirth and sadness sat before thee;-
Their laugh and sigh both over nuw,-their voices
Sunk and forgotten, and their forms but dust.

Thou, for their sake, stand honored there a while,
Honored wherever standing,-ne'er to leave
The house that calls me master. When there's nonc
I thus bequeath thee as in trust to those fsuch,
Who shall bear up my name. For each that hears
The music of thy bell, strike on the hours;
Duties between, and heaven's great hope beyon

them!

TO A DEAD TREE,
WITH A VINE TRAINED OVER IT.

OLD things are come to honor. Well they might,

Well they might
If old like thee, thou reverend monitor!
So gravely bright, so simply decorated;
Thy gold but faded into softer beauty,
Wbile click and hammer-stroke are just the same
As when my cradle heard them. Thou holdst on,
Upwearied, unremitting, constant ever;
The time that thou dost measure leaves no mark
Of age or sorrow on thy gleaming face.
The pulses of thy heart were never stronger;
And thy voice rings as clear as when it told me
How slowly crept the impatient days of childhood.
More than a hundred years of joys and troubles
Have passed and listened to thee; while thy tongue
Still told in its one round the unvaried tale;-
The same to thee, to them how different,
As fears, regrets, or wishes gave it tone!

My mother's childish wonder gazed as mine did
On the raised figures of thy slender door;-
The men,or dames, Chinese, grotesquely human;
The antler'd stag beneath its small round window;
The birds above, of scarce less size than he;
The doubtful house; the tree unknown to nature.

I see thee not in the old-fashioned room,
That first received thee from the mother land,
But yet thou mind'st me of those ancient times

The dead tree bears; each dried-up buugh

With leaves is overgrown,
And wears a living drapery now

Of verdure not his own.
The worthless stock a use has found,

The unsightly branch a grace;
As climbing first, then dropped around,

The green shoots interlace.
So round that Grecian mystic rod

To HERMES' band assigned, -
The emblem of a helping god

First leaves, then serpents, twined.

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