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And I saw how the †. of his manly soul
By that sacred vow wer red.

And nobly his pledge he kept—
For the truth he stood up alone,

And his spirit never slept,
And his march was ever on 1

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.

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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 finish 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. ișana has o 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, an 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;

“But when the light winds lie at rest,
Jond, on the £o heaving sea,
The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently.” .
And again ;
“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 2 Tell me, where doth dwell
The say 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, Cones to our bed, and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, Ali 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 hes here has mingled with the “well of water, springing up to everusting life.” The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are ho 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.

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The earth is full of life: the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full —
Earth which thou tread'st!—and thy poor mind be dull?
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day; and let the fresh air blow
Through thy soul’s shut up mansion. Would'st thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature’s quick! and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see.
Break from thy body’s grasp thy spirit's trance;
Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse:—
Love, joy, e'en sorrow, yield thyself to all!
They’ll make thy freedom, man, and not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large thy mind.
Then move in sympathy with God’s great whole,
And be, like man at first, “A LIVING soul,”
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Debased by sin, and used to things of sense,
How shall man’s spirit rise and travel hence,
Where lie the soul’s pure regions, without bounds—
Where mind’s at large—where passion ne'er confounds
Clear thought—where thought is sight—the far brings nigh,
Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high.

Cast off thy slough Send thy low spirit forth
Up to the Infinite; then know thy worth.
With Infinite, be infinite; with Love, be love;
Angel, midst angel throngs that move above;
Ay, more than angel: nearer the great CAUs E,
Through his redeeming power, now read his laws—
Not with thy earthly mind, that half detects
Something of outward things by slow effects;
Viewing creative causes, learn to know
The hidden springs; nor guess, as here below,
Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies—
In errors vain.—Clear Truth’s in yonder skies.

Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light, Up from the dust! the last, great day is bright

Bright on the holy mountain, round the throne,
Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone.
Look down! the depths are bright! and hear them cry,
“Light! light!”—Look up! 'tis rushing down from high!
Regions on regions—far away they shine:
'Tis light ineffable, ’tis light divine ! -
“Immortal light, and life for evermore s”
Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore
Of rolling worlds—“Man, wake thee from the sod—
Wake thee from death—awake —and live with God!”

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TEMPEsts their furious course may sweep
Swiftly o'er the troubled deep,
Darkness may lend her gloomy aid,
And wrap the groaning world in shade;
But man can i. a darker hour,
And bend beneath a stronger power;--
There is a tempest of the soul,
A gloom where wilder billows roll!

The howling wilderness'may spread
Its pathless deserts, parched and dread,
Where not a blade of herbage blooms,
Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes;
Where silence, death, and horror reign,
Unchecked, across the wide domain;–
There is a desert of the MIND
More hopeless, dreary, undefined:

There Sorrow, moody Discontent,
And gnawing Care, are wildly blent;
There Horror hangs her darkest clouds,
And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds:
A sickly ray is cast around,
Where nought but dreariness is found;
A feeling that may not be told,
Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom’s strife;

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