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. I believe he is now pastor of a church near Boston.

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 heard, 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 lie 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 God 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 lofty 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.

HENRY T. TUCKERMAN was born in Boston on the twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn at Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer. In the spring after his return, he gave the results of his observation to the public, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "The Italian Sketch Book." This work was received with much favour, and passed to a second edition. The author resumed and, for a time, prosecuted his academical studies, but again experiencing the injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, for the Mediterranean; visited

MARY.

WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated,
What though a thousand beings bear it now;
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted,-
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's vow?
We ever love the rose and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye,

And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has lit the northern sky.
As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing,
As garden odours to the desert blown,
In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
Thus, thus, for aye, the name of MARY spoken
By lips or text, with magic-like control,
The course of present thought has quickly broken
And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.
The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow,
The fairest trophies of the limner's fame,
To my fond fancy, MARY, seem to borrow

Celestial halos from thy gentle name:
The Grecian artist gleaned from many faces,
And in a perfect whole the parts combined,
So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces
To form the MARY of my ardent mind.
And marvel not I thus call my ideal,

We inly paint as we would have things be,
The fanciful springs ever from the real,

AS APHRODITE rose from out the sea; Who smiled upon me kindly day by day,

In a far land where I was sad and lone? Whose presence now is my delight alway? Both angels must the same bless'd title own. What spirits round my weary way are flying, What fortunes on my future life await, Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing, Are all unknown,-in trust I bide my fate;

Gibraltar and Malta, made the tour of Sicily, and, after a winter's residence at Palermo, crossed over to the continent. The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Florence, and returned to the United States in the course of the ensuing summer. In 1839 appeared from his pen "Isabel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage." Under the guise of a romance, it embraces many interesting descriptions and reflections incident to a Sicilian tour. For several years, he has been a contributor to our periodical literature, both in prose and verse. A selection from his writings, consisting of sketches, essays, and tales, was published in New York, in the autumn of 1841, under the title of "Rambles and Reveries." His style is graceful and correct, but not distinguished for vigour; and his thoughts and illustrations are pleasing and poetical.

But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven, "T would be that MARY should my being cheer, Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, Be my dear household word, and my last accent here.

THE RINGLET.

THE statesman's cabinet was thickly strown
With parchment scrolls, Ambition's implements:
The hum of passers by, the low, quick note
Of the rich time-piece, the fantastic play
Of chequer'd light athwart the dusky room,
The sweet aroma and the pensive strain
From his wife's terrace stealing winningly-
Were all unheeded by the man of cares.
You might have known the failure of some aim,
Of more than common import, in the plan
Too intricately wove-of his deep schemes:
For fix'd in troubled musings was his gaze;
As restlessly he scann'd each letter'd roll,
Till thrusting back, in very petulance,
A half-read packet on his escretoir,

The spring-lock of a secret drawer was touch'd,
And the forgotten nook where, in his youth,
He had been wont to store the treasures small
Of every doting hope, sprang forth unbid!
What mystic token stays his anxious gaze?
And whence that glowing flush ?—that mournful
smile?

Ay, and the tear in that world-tutor'd eye?
List, list!—he speaks!-mark well his thoughtful
words;

They may instruct thee,-for men call him GREAT:

"RINGLET of golden hair!

How thou dost move my very manhood now!
Stirring in radiance, there,

As once thou didst above this care-worn brow.

"Methinks it cannot be

That thou art mine; yet, gazing, I do feel
The spell of infancy,

Like distant music, through my bosom steal.
"Sweet relic of that hour!

She who so fondly deck'd thee, day by day,
As some love-cherish'd flower,

From the green earth, for aye, has pass'd away!

"O! what unconscious bliss

Fill'd this lone breast when thou wert floating free, Wooing the breeze's kiss!

Symbol of early joy, I welcome thee!

"Would that the sunny hue

That gilds thy silken threads so brightly o'er,Would that life's morning dew

Might bathe my restless heart forever more!

"Unto the spirit-land

Could I, in being's brightness, have been borne,Had her fond, trembling hand

From my cold brow this golden ringlet shorn;

"Not, then, should I thus gaze,

And sigh that time has weaken'd and made dim
The charm which thou dost raise,-
Bright are the tresses of the cherubim!

"Type of life's tranquil spring! Thy voice is rich and eloquently mild, The Teacher's echoing:

"Become thou now e'en as a little child.""

TO AN ELM.

BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.
In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train

That with a benison have pass'd thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!
Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.
The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer-days his notes prolong,
Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song.

Oft, on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,
And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay.
How bursts thy monarch wail,

When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life,
And, bared to meet the gale,
Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife!
The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,

While the fresh-murmuring leaves
Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.
Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free,
Gay youth and age serene
Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

O, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade.
Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.
With blessings at thy feet,

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;
Thy verdant, calm retreat

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When, at the twilight hour,

Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam,
Under thy ancient bower

The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream.
And when the moonbeams fall
Through thy broad canopy upon the grass,

Making a fairy hall,

As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass;

Then lovers haste to thee,

With hearts that tremble like that shifting light, To them, O, brave old tree,

Thou art joy's shrine-a temple of delight!

TRI-MOUNTAIN.

THROUGH Time's dim atmosphere, behold
Those ancient hills again,
Rising to Fancy's eager view
In solitude, as when
Beneath the summer firmament,
So silently of yore,

The shadow of each passing cloud
Their rugged bosoms bore!

They sloped in pathless grandeur then
Down to the murmuring sea,

And rose upon the woodland plain

In lonely majesty.

The breeze, at noontide, whisper'd soft
Their emerald knolls among,

And midnight's wind, amid their heights,
Its wildest dirges sung.

As on their brow the forest-king
Paused in his weary way,

From far below his quick ear caught

The moaning of the bay;

The dry leaves, fann'd by autumn's breath,

Along their ridges crept;

And snow-wreaths, like storm-whiten'd waves, Around them rudely swept.

For ages, o'er their swelling sides,

Grew the wild flowers of spring,

And stars smiled down, and dew-founts pour'd
Their gentle offering.

The moonbeams play'd upon their peaks,
And at their feet the tide;

And thus, like altar-mounts they stood,
By nature sanctified.