Song.* FROM YAMOYDEN.

SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light
As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray;
Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright

As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray.

O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast;
In the wild wood Sleep cradles in roses thy head;
But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed,

He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father! why stays he so long

On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song,

So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone.

He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe,

Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry; The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!

3--whose presence is near,

The Power that is round us--w

In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul

Protect that lone bark in its lonely career,

And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll!

Solitude.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,

While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught,
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife
And fever of the world. I thought to be

We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its charac ter with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the reader will find in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.-ED.

There without witness. But the violet's eye
Looked up upon me,-the fresh wild-rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek
And there were voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told

Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare.
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought
To be alone, and silent in thy realm,

Spirit of life and love! It might not be!

There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,

He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round

Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,

Are social and benevolent; and he

Who oft communeth in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,

Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

Bishop Ravenscroft.-GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE.
-For he was a good man."

THE good old man is gone!
He lies in his saintly rest,
And his labors all are done,

And the work that he loved the best.
The good old man is gone—

But the dead in the Lord are blessed!

I stood in the holy aisle,

When he spake the solemn word,

That bound him, through care and toil,
The servant of the Lord:

And I saw how the depths of his manly soul
By that sacred vow were irred.

And nobly his pledge he kept-
For the truth he stood up alone,
And his spirit never slept,
And his march was ever on!

Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept,
The brave old man that's gone.

There were heralds of the cross,

By his bed of death that stood,

And heard how he counted all but loss,

For the gain of his Savior's blood;

And patiently waited his Master's voice,

Let it call him when it would.

The good old man is gone!

An apostle chair is void;

There is dust on his mitre thrown,
And they've broken his pastoral rod;

And the fold of his love he has left alone,

To account for its care to God.

The wise old man is gone!

His honored head lies low,

And his thoughts of power are done,

And his voice's manly flow,

And the pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn,

Is still and soulless now.

The brave old man is gone!

With his armor on, he fell ;*

Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn,

When his spirit fled, to tell;

For mortal sufferings, keen and long,

Had no power his heart to quell.

The good old man is gone!

He is gone to his saintly rest,
Where no sorrow can be known,

And no trouble can molest:

For his crown of life is won,

And the dead in Christ are blessed!

The bishop was at that time (ten days before his death) employing the little strength he had in revising his MSS. for publication. By them, though dead, he will yet speak.

I

The Life of God in the Soul of Man.-DANA.*

COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought,
And all those inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live.

Canst guess what deep content, in turn, they give?
Kind wishes and good deeds will render back

More than thou e'er canst sum. Thou'lt nothing lack,
But say,
"I'm full!"-Where does the stream begin?
The source of outward joy lies deep within.

E'en let it flow, and make the places glad

Where dwell thy fellow men. Should'st thou be sad,
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near,
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,

*We are disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of all the American poets, not excepting Bryant; and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because he is superior to all others in the elegance of his language, and in the polished beauty and Snish of his compositions: in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no equal and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dress of his thoughts. Not because, in the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has principally confined his genius, he would be superior, or even equal to this delightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are peculiarly suited to the accurate and exquisite description of what is beautiful in nature; and, what is more, he unites with this power the spirit of gentle human feeling, and sometimes a rich, grand, and solemn philosophy: it will be long ere any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer strain than that to the evening wind; and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nobler "Thanatopsis." But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry; he exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being so beautiful and finished, is yet more vivid, concise, and alive and informed with meaning. His descriptions of natural objects may not pass before the mind with such sweet harmony, but they often present, in a single line, a whole picture before the imagination, with a vividness and power of compression which are astonishing. For instance;

And again;

"But when the light winds lie at rest,

And, on the glassy, heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently.".

"The ship works hard; the seas run high;

Their white tops, flashing through the night,

That now, upon the water, dances, now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The fay that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thine own bosom, brother, didst thou say?
Then cherish as thine own so good a fay.

And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state,
But temper of the soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, then let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love.
Then let the feeling in thy breast be given
To honest ends; this, sanctified by Heaven,
And springing into life, new life imparts,
Till thy frame beats as with a thousand hearts.

Our sins our nobler faculties debase,

And make the earth a spiritual waste

Unto the soul's dimmed eye :-'tis man, not earth-
'Tis thou, poor, self-starved soul, hast caused the dearth.

Give to the eager, straining eye,

A wild and shifting light."

Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one; speaking of the prospect of immortality :

""Tis in the gentle moonlight;

'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night,

Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step,

Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:

Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,

All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,

As one vast mystic instrument, are touched

By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee."-

In these respects,-in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture, in his admirable skill in the perspective, and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation,-he reminds us both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space hero, in a note, to illustrate the resemblance, by instances which would show our meaning, and his merits, better than a whole chapter of criticism.

But, above all, we admire Mr. Dana, more than any other American poet, because he has aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to rouse up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, because his poetry is full of benevolent, affectionate, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which gushes here has mingled with the "well of water springing up to everfusting life." The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are humble, earnest desires after that holiness, "without which no man shall see God." It speaks of a better land of rest, "but bids us turn to God, and seek our rest in Him."-ED.