THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

REST with the noble dead

In Dryburgh's solemn pile,
Where sleep the peer and warrior bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old,

Along the statued isle;

Where, stain'd with dust of buried years,
The rude sarcophagus appears

In mould imbedded deep;

And Scotia's skies of sparkling blue
Stream with the oriel windows through
Where ivied masses creep;

And, touch'd with symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time
Their mouldering legends keep.

And yet, methinks, thou shouldst have chose
Thy latest couch at fair Melrose,

Whence burst thy first, most ardent song,
And swept with wildering force along

Where Tweed in silver flows.

There the young moonbeams, quivering faint
O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint,

Reveal a lordly race;
And knots of roses richly wrought,
And tracery light as poet's thought,
The cluster'd columns grace.

There good King DAVID's rugged mien
Fast by his faithful spouse is seen,
And 'neath the stony floor

Lie chiefs of DOUGLAS' haughty breast,
Contented now to take their rest,

And rule their kings no more.

It was a painful thing to see

Trim Abbotsford so gay,

The rose-trees climbing there so bold,
The ripening fruits in rind of gold,
And thou, their lord, away.

I saw the lamp, with oil unspent,
O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent,
When erst, with magic skill,
Unearthly beings heard thy call,
And flitting spectres throng'd the hall,
Obedient to thy will.

Yon fair domain was all thine own,
From stately roof to threshold stone,

Yet didst thou lavish pay

The coin that caused life's wheels to stop?
The heart's blood oozing drop by drop
Through the tired brain away?

I said the lamp unspent was there,
The books arranged in order fair;
But none of all thy kindred race
Found in those lordly halls a place:
Thine only son, in foreign lands,
Led boldly on his martial bands,
And stranger-lips, unmoved and cold,
The legends of thy mansion told;
They lauded glittering brand and spear,
And costly gifts of prince and peer,

And broad claymore, with silver dight,
And hunting-horn of border knight-
What were such gauds to me?
More dear had been one single word
From those whose veins thy blood had stirr'd
To Scotia's accents free.

Yet one there was, in humble cell,
A poor retainer, lone and old,
Who of thy youth remember'd well,
And many a treasured story told;
And pride, upon her wrinkled face,

Blent strangely with the trickling tear,
As Memory, from its choicest place,
Brought forth, in deep recorded trace,

Thy boyhood's gambols dear;
Or pointed out, with wither'd hand,
Where erst thy garden-seat did stand,
When thou, return'd from travel vain,
Wrapp'd in thy plaid, and pale with pain,
Didst gaze with vacant eye,

For stern disease had drank the fount
Of mental vision dry.

Ah! what avails, with giant power,
To wrest the trophies of an hour;
One moment write, with sparkling eye,
Our name on castled turrets high,
And yield the next, a broken trust,
To earth, to ashes, and to dust.

And now, farewell, whose hand did sweep
Away the damps of ages deep,
And fire with proud baronial strain
The harp of chivalry again,

And make its wild, forgotten thrill
To modern ears delightful still.

Thou, who didst make, from shore to shore,
Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar,
Her blue lakes bosom'd in their shade,
Her sheepfolds scatter'd o'er the glade,
Her rills, with music, leaping down,
The perfume of her heather brown,
Familiar as their native glen

To differing tribes of distant men,
Patriot and bard! old Scotia's care
Shall keep thine image fresh and fair,
Embalming to remotest time

The SHAKSPEARE of her tuneful clime.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that polish'd

brow, And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touch'd the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set The seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile, So fix'd, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal The signet-ring of heaven.

A loftiness, to face a world in arms,
To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay
On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood
Of slain affections, should they rise between
The soul and GoD. O ye, who proudly boast,
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these,
Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose
Their likeness in your sons. Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue, or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt
Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to GOD.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main!
Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom; then, from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels
Half-wreck'd through gulfs profound. Moons wax
and wane,

But still that patient traveller treads the deep.
-I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers
With such a tardy movement, that it seems
Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds.
-They land! they land! not like the Genoese,
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come
From their long prison, hardy forms that brave
The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair,
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave,
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,

And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps
To this drear desert? Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the guide who call'd him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark
Hath spread her parting sail. They crowd the strand,
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link,
Binding to man, and habitable earth,

Is sever'd? Can ye tell what pangs were there,
With keen reg.ets; what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones? Long, with straining eye,
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness

Sank down into their bosoms? No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!
Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,

INDIAN NAMES.

"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving ?"

YE say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;
That, mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curl'd,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins,

That cluster'd o'er the vale, Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves Before the autumn's gale; But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak

Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it

Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown. Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,

And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,

Doth seal the sacred trust,

Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust.

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 pub lished 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 hoursHow, then, the white-robed maiden train Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowersAnd 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.

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!

"T was 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 Gon to prove,
And prayer and resignation shall
Its bitterness remove.