So should it be-for no heart beats The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this-his deep repose Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close, 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 Were gushing down its lofty side; The idler, on his silken bed, In gladness on the world below, The rapture of her mighty heart. 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. AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light! The wind breathes low; the withering leaf How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! "T is like the memory left behind When loved ones breathe their last. GEORGE W. DOANE. [Born, 1799.] 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, 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; He won his "fair and blooming bride." How, till the appointed day arrived, They stood, in all their youthful pride, And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows, All this it tells; the plighted troth- 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. Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long, Of heartfelt, holy love the token: THE VOICE OF RAMA. "RACHEL Weeping for her children, and would not be comforted." HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls, Is it the moan of fetter'd slave, Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S Sons, 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; Her wasted form is bending; Delight may beam to-morrow; Bereaved one! I may not chide Thy tears and bitter sobbing— To whom no hope is given- THAT SILENT MOON. THAT silent moon, that silent moon, Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Profaned her pure and holy light: With sights like these, that virgin queen! By rippling wave, or tufted grove, And heart meets heart in holy love, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought, And start the tear for those we love, 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, Or bask them in the noontide ray; THERMOPYLE. "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; O, yes, that oath was nobly kept, The foeman's fetters spurn; THE WATERS OF MARAH. "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." Br Marah's stream of bitterness Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer Thy faith in God to prove, And prayer and resignation shall Its bitterness remove. "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!— 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, 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- LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE. THIS placid lake, my gentle girl, As free from care and strife; A mirror'd image lies; 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, Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth; 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 Gon they rest, All their toils and troubles leaving: Love that to the end endureth, And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth! U 2 GRENVILLE MELLEN. [Born, 1799. Died, 1841.] GRENVILLE MELLEN was the third son of the late Chief Justice PRENTISS MELLEN, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after leaving that seminary became a law-student in the office of his father, who had before that time removed to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the prac tice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a pleasant village near his native town. Within three years-in October, 1828-his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy. I believe Mr. MELLEN did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire entitled "Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," appeared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the " Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem entitled "The Rest of Empires," in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immortalize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic of his best manner : "We have been taught, in oracles of old, Of the enskied divinity of song; That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, Came in the light of inspiration forth, And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. And were those peerless bards, whose strains have come Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, Were they inspired 3-Alas, for Poetry! It was the menial service of the bard- "But other times have strung new lyres again, After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEN removed to New York, where he resided nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote much for the literary magazines, and edited several works for his friend, Mr. COLMAN, the publisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Miscellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learning of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841. Mr. MELLEN was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which preceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will preserve. They are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and unintelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius; no original, clear, and manly thought; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature; no humour, no pathos, no passion; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled "The Bu gle," although it whispers whence it stole its spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and unmeaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his works. |