So should it be-for no heart beats
Within his cold and silent breast;
To him no gentle voice repeats

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!
The earth is radiant with delight;
And, fast as weary day retires,
The heaven unfolds its secret fires,
Bright, as when first the firmament
Around the new-made world was bent,
And infant seraphs pierced the blue,
Till rays of heaven came shining through.

And mark the heaven's reflected glow
On many an icy plain below;

And where the streams, with tinkling clash,
Against their frozen barriers dash,
Like fairy lances fleetly cast,

The glittering ripples hurry past;

And floating sparkles glance afar,
Like rivals of some upper star.

And see, beyond, how sweetly still
The snowy moonlight wraps the hill,
And many an aged pine receives
The steady brightness on its leaves,
Contrasting with those giant forms,
Which, rifled by the winter storms,
With naked branches, broad and high,
Are darkly painted on the sky.

From every mountain's towering head
A white and glistening robe is spread,
As if a melted silver tide

Were gushing down its lofty side;
The clear, cold lustre of the moon
Is purer than the burning noon;
And day hath never known the charm
That dwells amid this evening calm.

The idler, on his silken bed,
May talk of nature, cold and dead;
But we will gaze upon this scene,
Where some transcendent power hath been,
And made these streams of beauty flow

In gladness on the world below,
Till nature breathes from every part

The rapture of her mighty heart.

DEATH.

LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold
And let the evening sunlight in;
I would not that my heart grew cold
Before its better years begin.

"T is well; at such an early hour,
So calm and pure, a sinking ray
Should shine into the heart, with power
To drive its darker thoughts away.

The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now,
And not the later cares, whose trace
Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow.
What though those days return no more!
The sweet remembrance is not vain,
For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.
Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed,
But let me rest upon the hand,

And let me hear that gentle tread
Of her, whose kindness long ago,
And still, unworn away by years,
Has made my weary eyelids flow
With grateful and admiring tears.

I go, but let no plaintive tone
The moment's grief of friendship tell;
And let no proud and graven stone

Say where the weary slumbers well.
A few short hours, and then for heaven!
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ;
For who would mourn the warning given
Which calls us from a world like this!

AUTUMN EVENING.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The wind breathes low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

"T is like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are seal'd in death
Shall wake, to close no more.

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,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,

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;
How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdain'd to rove-
How warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied,
Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his "fair and blooming bride."

How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours—
How, then, the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers-
And how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,

And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride:

All this it tells; the plighted troth-
The gift of every earthly thing-

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.
"This heart is thine, mine own dear love!"
Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,

Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.

Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,

Of heartfelt, holy love the token:
What varied feelings round it cling!-
For these I like that ancient ring.

THE VOICE OF RAMA.

"RACHEL Weeping for her children, and would not be comforted."

HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls,
That voice of bitter weeping!-

Is it the moan of fetter'd slave,
His watch of sorrow keeping?
Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains,
That cry of lamentation!-

Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S Sons,
For Salem's devastation?

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;
And childless are the eyes that there
Their watch of grief are keeping.
O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave

Her wasted form is bending;
From many an eye that weeps to-day

Delight may beam to-morrow;
But she her precious babe is not!
And what remains but sorrow?

Bereaved one! I may not chide

Thy tears and bitter sobbing—
Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing:
But be not thine such grief as theirs

To whom no hope is given-
Snatch'd from the world, its sins and snares,
Thy infant rests in heaven.

THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
O! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth!
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,

With sights like these, that virgin queen!
But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,

And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes-
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

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,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power
is hers to soothe the heart-
What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :-
But, O! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!

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;
Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain-cliff to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave.

O, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart

The foeman's fetters spurn;
And firmly was the fight maintain'd,
And amply was the triumph gain'd;
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee:
They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

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
When MOSES stood and cried,
JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer,
And instant help supplied:
The prophet sought the precious tree
With prompt, obedient feet;
"Twas cast into the fount, and made
The bitter waters sweet.

Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,

Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine:
"Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd

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!-
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!-
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!—
Proudly careering his course of jɔy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!-
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

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,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless?

Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

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-
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts
He had twined about with his infant arts,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray,
Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,

As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast
That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.
And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,

A mirror'd image lies;
So be thy spirit ever pure,

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,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,—
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,

Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing!
Pour not thou the bitter tear;
Heaven its book of comfort opeth;
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,

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:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth!

U 2

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
In an undying echo to the world,

Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles,
And made melodious all the hills of Rome,-

Were they inspired 3-Alas, for Poetry!
That her great ministers, in early time,
Sung for the brave alone-and bade the soul
Battle for heaven in the ranks of war!
It was the treason of the godlike art
That pointed glory to the sword and spear,
And left the heart to moulder in its mail!

It was the menial service of the bard-
It was the basest bondage of his powers,
In later times to consecrate a feast,
And sing of gallantry in hall and bower,
To courtly knights and ladies,

"But other times have strung new lyres again,
And other music greets us. Poetry
Comes robed in smiles, and, in low breathing sounds,
Takes counsel, like a friend, in our still hours,
And points us to the stars-the waneless stars-
That whisper an hereafter to our souls.
It breathes upon our spirits a rich balm,
And, with its tender tones and melody,
Draws mercy from the warrior-and proclaims
A morn of bright and universal love
To those who journey with us through the vale;
It points to moral greatness-deeds of mind,
And the high struggles, worthy of a man.
Have we no minstrels in our echoing halls,
No wild CADWALLON, with his wilder strain,
Pouring his war-songs upon helined ears?
We have sounds stealing from the far retreats
Of the bright company of gifted men,
Who pour their mellow music round our age,
And point us to our duties and our hearts;
The poet's constellation beams around—
A pensive CoWPER lives in all his lines,
And MILTON hymns us on to hope and heaven!"

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.