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. A collection of his poems was published in 1844.

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
Full of high eloquence and poetry,

And all that makes the love of beauty grow,
And yet no harmony?

No music there, where music's font hath been-
No sweet sounds, swelling dreamily and long,
When night and silence listen to drink in
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
We never hear the music of the spheres

Come pealing through the sky ?*
Were there no revelations from the deep,
Unbroken stillness of yon glittering host,
Murmuring on old Tradition's infant sleep,
Like voice of heavenly ghost?

*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 beard, and the ear too small to take cognisance of it.

Did they not come to them who talk'd with GoD,
In the cool hush of morning and of eve-
Who fell in Eden-felt the Chastener's rod,
And wander'd forth to grieve?

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 That wisdom which to eye nor ear was told, Till Christ, the teacher, came?

If, O ye orbs, ye never yet have spoken
In language audible-still let me feel
Your silent concord, o'er my heart unbroken,
In holy influence steal!

And let me trace in all things beautiful

A natural harmony, that soothes, upraises;
So it may wake a soul too mute and dull,
To everlasting praises!

THE BLIND SEER.

FROM morn till night the old man sitteth still;
Deep quench'd in darkness he all earthly sights;
He hath not known, since childhood sway'd his will,
The outward shows of open-eyed delights.
But in an inner world of thought he liveth,

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,
That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up
TO HIM who sits on high.

And we, who walk among them,

As one by one departs,
See not that they are hovering
Forever round our hearts.

Like summer-bees, that hover
Around the idle flowers,
They gather every act and thought,
Those viewless angel-hours.

The poison or the nectar

The heart's deep flower-cups yield,
A sample still they gather swift,
And leave us in the field.

And some flit by on pinions

Of joyous gold and blue,

And some flag on with drooping wings
Of sorrow's darker hue.

But still they steal the record,
And bear it far away;
Their mission-flight by day or night
No magic power can stay.

And as we spend each minute

That Gon 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,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison-flower!

So, when death brings its shadows,
The hours that linger last
Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings,
Unfetter'd by the past.

STANZAS.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech;
Feeling deeper than all thought:
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils :

Man by man was never seen:
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known:

Mind with mind did never meet:
We are columns left alone,

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
In my lonely musing;

And they drift so strange and swift,
There's no time for choosing
Which to follow, for to leave

Any, seems a losing.

When they come, they come in flocks,
As on glancing feather,
Startled birds rise one by one,
In autumnal weather,
Waking one another up

From the sheltering heather.
Some so merry that I laugh,

Some are grave and serious,
Some so trite, their last approach
Is enough to weary us:
Others flit like midnight ghosts,
Shrouded and mysterious.

There are thoughts that o'er me steal,
Like the day when dawning;
Great thoughts wing'd with melody,
Common utterance scorning,
Moving in an inward tune,

And an inward morning.

Some have dark and drooping wings,
Children all of sorrow;
Some are as gay, as if to-day

Could see no cloudy morrow,
And yet like light and shade they each
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?
I gazed upon the dance, where ladies bright

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 forms were fair to see,

The tones were sweet to the ear,
But there's beauty more rare to me,
That beauty was not here.

I stood in the open air,
And gazed on nature there.

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:
Beauty breathed in the summer-breeze,
Beauty rock'd the whispering trees,
Was mirror'd in the sleeping billow,
Was bending in the swaying willow,
Flooding the skies, bathing the earth,
Giving all lovely things a birth:
All-all was fair to see-

All was sweet to the ear:

But there's beauty more fair to me-
That beauty was not here.

I sat in my room alone.

My heart began a tone:

Its soothing strains were such
As if a spirit's touch
Were visiting its chords.
Soon it gather'd words,
Pouring forth its feelings,
And its deep revealings:
Thoughts and fancies came
With their brightening flame.
Truths of deepest worth
Sprang imbodied forth-

Deep and solemn mysteries,
Spiritual harmonies,

And the faith that conquers time-
Strong, and lovely, and sublime.

Then the purposes of life
Stood apart from vulgar strife.
Labour in the path of duty

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 lov sympathies
That, torgetting selfish ease,
Prompted acts that sought the good
Of every spirit:-understood
The wants of every human heart,
Eager ever to impart

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.

MR. PARODIE is a native of Providence, in Rhode Island. He was admitted to the bar in the spring of 1837, and has since, I believe, practised his profession in his native city. His principal work is "Calidore, a Legendary Poem," published

in 1839. It possesses considerable merit, but is not so carefully finished as some of his minor pieces, nor is there any thing strikingly original in its fable or sentiments. His writings are more distinguished for elegance than for vigour.

GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS.

Go forth into the fields,

Ye denizens of the pent city's mart!
Go forth and know the gladness nature yields
To the care-wearied heart.

Leave ye the feverish strife,

The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng;-
Ten thousand voices, waked anew to life,
Call you with sweetest song.

Hark! from each fresh-clad bough,
Or blissful soaring in the golden air,
Bright birds with joyous music bid you now
To spring's loved haunts repair.

The silvery gleaming rills

Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea,
Or gayly dancing down the sunny hills,

Call loudly in their glee!

And the young, wanton breeze,

With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, In voice low whispering 'mong th'embowering trees, Woos you to her embrace.

Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Or on some pine-crown'd summit, tempest riven, Your wandering footsteps stay.

Seek ye the solemn wood,

Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear,
And listen, while the roar of some far flood
Thrills the young leaves with fear!
Stand by the tranquil lake,

Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye,
Save when the wild bird's wing its surface break,
Checkering the mirror'd sky--

And if within your breast,

Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ;
If aught save worldly honours find you blest,
Or hope of sordid gain,--

A strange delight shall thrill,

A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove;
Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill,
Stirring its depths with love.

O, in the calm, still hours,
The holy Sabbath-hours, when sleeps the air,
And heaven, and earth deck'd with her beauteous
Lie hush'd in breathless prayer,-- [flowers,

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

GONE in the flush of youth! Gone ere thy heart had felt earth's withering care; Ere the stern world had soil'd thy spirit's truth, Or sown dark sorrow there.

Fled like a dream away!

But yesterday mid life's auroral bloom-
To-day, sad winter, desolate and gray,

Sighs round thy lonely tomb.

Fond hearts were beating high,

Fond eyes were watching for the loved one gone, And gentle voices, deeming thou wert nigh,

Talk'd of thy glad return.

They watch'd--not all in vain

Thy form once more the wonted threshold pass'd; But choking sobs, and tears like summer-rain, Welcom'd thee home at last.

Friend of my youth, farewell!

To thee, we trust, a happier life is given;
One tie to earth for us hath loosed its spell,
Another form'd for heaven.

OUR COUNTRY.

OUR country!--'t is a glorious land!

With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore, The proud Pacific chafes her strand,

She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And, nurtured on her ample breast,

How many a goodly prospect lies
In Nature's wildest grandeur drest,

Enamell'd with her loveliest dyes.
Rich prairies, deck'd with flowers of gold,
Like sunlit oceans roll afar;
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold,
Reflecting clear each trembling star,
And mighty rivers, mountain-born,

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep,
Through forests where the bounding fawn
Beneath their sheltering branches leap.
And, cradled mid her clustering hills,

Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide,
Where love the air with music fills;
And calm content and peace abide;
For plenty here her fulness pours
In rich profusion o'er the land,
And, sent to seize her generous store,
There prowls no tyrant's hireling band.
Great GoD! we thank thee for this home--
This bounteous birthland of the free;
Where wanderers from afar may come,
And breathe the air of liberty!--
Still may her flowers untrampled spring,
Her harvests wave, her cities rise;
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing,
Remain Earth's loveliest paradise!

I HEAR THY VOICE, O SPRING!

I HEAR thy voice, O Spring! Its flute-like tones are floating through the air, Winning my soul with their wild ravishing, From earth's heart-wearying care.

Divinely sweet thy song-

But yet, methinks, as near the groves I pass, Low sighs on viewless wings are borne along, Tears gem the springing grass.

For where are they, the young, The loved, the beautiful, who, when thy voice, A year agone, along these valleys rung, Did hear thee and rejoice!

Thou seek'st for them in vainNo more they'll greet thee in thy joyous round; Calmly they sleep beneath the murmuring main, Or moulder in the ground.

Yet peace, my heart--be still!

Look upward to yon azure sky and know,
To heavenlier music now their bosoms thrill,
Where balmier breezes blow.

For them hath bloom'd a spring,
Whose flowers perennial deck a holier sod,
Whose music is the song that seraphs sing,
Whose light, the smile of GoD!

I STOOD BESIDE HIS GRAVE.

I STOOD beside the grave of him,
Whose heart with mine had fondly beat,
While memories, from their chambers dim,
Throng'd mournful, yet how sadly sweet!
It was a calm September eve,

The stars stole trembling into sight,
Save where the day, as loth to leave,

Still flush'd the heavens with rosy light.
The crickets in the grass were heard,
The city's murmur softly fell,
And scarce the dewy air was stirr'd,
As faintly toll'd the evening-bell.

O Death! had then thy summons come,
To bid me from this world away,—
How gladly had I hail'd the doom
That stretch'd me by his mouldering clay!
And twilight deepen'd into night,

And night itself grew wild and drear,-
For clouds rose darkly on the sight,

And winds sigh'd mournful on the ear:And yet I linger'd mid the fern, Though gleam'd no star the eye to blessFor, O, 't was agony to turn

And leave him to his loneliness!