Saints robed in white, to thee their anthems bring,
And radiant martyrs hallelujahs sing:

Heaven's universal host their voices raise

In one eternal chorus to thy praise;
And round thy awful throne with one accord
Sing, holy, holy, holy is the Lord.

At thy creative voice, from ancient night
Sprang smiling beauty, and yon worlds of light:
Thou spak'st-the planetary chorus rolled,

And all the expanse was starr'd with beamy gold;
"Let there be light," said God,-light instant shone,
And from the orient burst the golden sun;
Heaven's gazing hierarchies with glad surprise
Saw the first morn invest the recent skies,
And straight the exulting troops thy throne surround
With thousand thousand harps of heavenly sound;
Thrones, powers, dominions, (ever-shining trains!)
Shouted thy praises in triumphant strains :
"Great are thy works," they sing, and all around
"Great are thy works," the echoing heavens resound.
The effulgent sun, insufferably bright,

Is but a beam of thy o'erflowing light;

The tempest is thy breath: the thunder hurl'd,
Tremendous roars thy vengeance o'er the world;

Thou bow'st the heavens; the smoking mountains nod,
Rocks fall to dust, and nature owns her God;

Pale tyrants shrink, the atheist stands aghast,
And impious kings in horror breathe their last.
To this great God, alternately I'd pay
The evening anthem, and the morning lay.

For sovereign gold I never would repine,
Nor wish the glittering dust of monarchs mine.
What though high columns heave into the skies,
Gay ceilings shine, and vaulted arches rise,
Though fretted gold the sculptured roof adorn,
The rubbies redden, and the jaspers burn!
Or what, alas! avails the gay attire

To wretched man, who breathes but to expire!
Oft on the vilest riches are bestow'd,
To show their meanness in the sight of God,
High from a dunghill, see a Dives rise,
And Titan-like insult the avenging skies:
The crowd in adulation calls him lord,
By thousands courted, flatter'd, and adored:
In riot plunged, and drunk with earthly joys,
No higher thought his grovelling soul employs;

The poor he scourges with an iron rod,
And from his bosom banishes his God.

But oft in height of wealth and beauty's bloom,
Deluded man is fated to the tomb!

For, lo, he sickens, swift his color flies,
And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes:
Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan,
Extort the unwilling tear, and wish him gone;
His sorrowing heir augments the tender shower,
Deplores his death-yet hails the dying hour.
Ah, bitter comfort! sad relief to die!
Though sunk in down, beneath a canopy!
His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light,
Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night:
And now the great, the rich, the proud, the gay,
Lies breathless, cold—unanimated clay!
He that just now was flatter'd by the crowd
With high applause, and acclamation loud;
That steel'd his bosom to the orphan's cries,
And drew down torrents from the widow's eyes;
Whom, like a God, the rabble did adore-
Regard him now-and lo! he is no more.

My eyes no dazzling vestments should behold,
With gems instarr'd, and stiff with woven gold;
But the tall ram his downy fleece afford,
To clothe in modest garb his frugal lord.
Thus the great father of mankind was dress'd,
When shaggy hides composed his flowing vest;
Doom'd to the cumbrous load for his offence,
When clothes supplied the want of innocence;
But now his sons (forgetful whence they came,)
Glitter in gems, and glory in their shame.

Oft would I wander through the dewy field,
Where clustering roses balmy fragrance yield;
Or in lone grots for contemplation made,
Converse with angels, and the mighty dead:
For all around unnumber'd spirits fly,
Waft on the breeze, or walk the liquid sky,
Inspire the poet with repeated dreams,

Who gives his hallow'd muse to sacred themes,
Protect the just, serene their gloomy hours,
Becalm their slumbers, and refresh their powers.
Methinks I see the immortal beings fly,
And swiftly shoot athwart the streaming sky:

Hark! a melodious voice I seem to hear,
And heavenly sounds invade my listening ear.
"Be not afraid of us, innoxious band,
Thy cell surrounding by divine command;
Erewhile like thee we led our lives below,
(Sad lives of pain, of misery, and woe!)
Long by affliction's boisterous tempests tost,
We reach'd at length the ever-blissful coast:
Now in the embowering groves and lawns above,
We taste the raptures of immortal love,
Attune the golden harp in roseate bowers,
Or bind our temples with unfading flowers.
Oft on kind errands bent, we cut the air
To guard the righteous, heaven's peculiar care!
Avert impending harms, their minds compose,
Inspire gay dreams, and prompt their soft repose.
When from thy tongue divine hosannas roll,
And sacred raptures swell thy rising soul,

To heaven we bear thy prayers like rich perfumes,
Where, by the throne, the golden censer fumes.
And when with age thy head is silver'd o'er,
And cold in death, thy bosom beats no more,
Thy soul exulting shall desert its clay,
And mount triumphant to eternal day."

BENJAMIN CHURCH,

DR BENJAMIN CHURCH was born in Boston, in 1739, and studied at Harvard College, where he was graduated in 1754. He chose the profession of medicine, which he exercised for many years in his native town, and rose to great eminence as a physician. He appears to have cultivated literary studies with considerable attention, and was the most distinguished among his contemporaries in Boston as a poet. A great number of prose writings also from his pen, upon subjects relating to politics, philology and the like, as well as of a lighter description, attest the versatility of his talent, and the extent of his acquirements. These casual performances are extant for the most part only in newspapers, and other periodical works, 13

VOL. I.

and we know of but one of his effusions either in prose or verse, which has occupied a more imposing or durable shape than that of a pamphlet.

Although the general estimation in which his abilities were held, and his own decided taste for letters, might be supposed to have inclined him to strive for eminence as a literary man, yet it does not appear that his labors were directed to this point with any very powerful endeavor. His poetical effusions were indebted for their origin on most occasions, to occurrences of local and temporary interest, and never appear to have been put forth in anticipation of the reward of public applause. They were all, we believe, published anonymously.

Dr Church had a high reputation as a poet and political writer previous to the revolution, but his treachery in deserting the American cause has contributed to throw a shade over his talents, and few have since thought of him as a man of science and letters, but only as the recreant to the cause of freedom and his country. His writings, therefore, have fallen into neglect, although his most spirited performance was executed before his political backslidings, and breathes a pure, ly patriotic feeling.

At the commencement of the revolutionary troubles, Church was a staunch whig. His poem upon the Times, as just observed, is perfectly in accordance with the popular feeling at that period. His oration upon the massacre of the fifth of March, is distinguished for its patriotic sentiments, as well as elegance of style. His political essays, no less than his conversation, were in the same strain, and this unreserved devotion to the cause of his country, with his known talents, made him one of the leading politicians of the popular party. He was chosen a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, and on the beginning of hostilities, received the appointment of physician general of the American army. Although he was known to have kept up a strict intimacy with some of the British officers before this period, yet the reasons he assigned for this, by stating it to be done with a view of obtaining their secrets, removed all suspicion of his insincerity, and

at the time of the battle of Lexington, he was one of the committee of safety. But with all this seeming attachment to the American cause, Church was partial to the British interest, and while openly professing the strongest zeal for the popular measures, he was laboring in secret against them. The patriotic songs current among the people were parodied by him in favor of the British. The political essays which he wrote on the popular side received answers from the same pen in a tory print.* In 1775, shortly after the battle of Lexington, he visited the enemy in Boston upon pretence of an errand after medicines for the use of the army; according to the account he gave of his journey after his return, he was made prisoner by the British on entering the town, and carried before General Gage, where he underwent an examination, but it came to be known afterwards, that he visited the British general's house voluntarily, and held a long conference with him.

In October of the same year, his dealings with the enemy were discovered. A letter was intercepted, written in cipher by him to a British officer in Boston, and containing statements of the force of the American army, the designs of the government, the prevailing opinions of the people, conjectures on their ability to resist the British arms, and other varieties of the like intelligence. Church was arrested by order of Washington, and confined till the meeting of the General Court, of which he was then a member. On his examination he did not deny the letter, but endeavored to defend himself by asserting that he gave the information contained therein to the enemy, with a view to impress them with a high opinion of the strength of the Americans, in order that the meditated attack might be delayed till the continental army was stronger.

*The Censor. The author of a tract in the fifth volume of the Massachusetts Historical Collections, has affirmed that there is no evidence that Church was a writer in this paper, or that he abandoned the whigs before the breaking out of hostilities. Circumstances, however, have been related to us by a person now living in Boston, who was familiar with the events of that period, which remove all doubts as to the fact stated above.