To thee we raise the voice of praise,
And bend in adoration.

We praise the Power that made us;
We praise the love that blesses;

While every day that rolls away
Thy gracious care confesses.

Life is from thee, blessed Father;
From thee our breathing spirits;
And thou dost give to all that live
The bliss that each inherits.
Day, night, and rolling seasons,
And all that life embraces,
With bliss are crowned, with joy abound,
And claim our thankful praises.

Though trial and affliction
May cast their dark shade o'er us,
Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow
§f light on all before us.
That love has smiled from heaven
To cheer our path of sadness,
And lead the way, through earth’s dull day,
To realms of endless gladness.
That light of love and glory
Has shone through Christ, the Savior,
The holy Guide, who lived and died
That we might live forever:
And since thy great compassion
Thus brings thy children near thee,
May we to praise devote our days,
And love as well as fear thee.

And when Death’s final summons
From earth's dear scenes shall move us,
From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes,
From all that know and love us,
O, then, let hope attend us!
Thy peace to us be given:
That we may rise above the skies,
And sing thy praise in heaven!

The Temple of Theseus.”—JAMEs WALLIs EAs THURN.

UNCRUMBLED yet, the sacred fane uprears
Its brow, majestic in the storm of years:
Time has but slightly dared to steal away
The marks of beauty from its columns gray;
Each sculptured capital in glory stands,
As once the boast of those delightful lands,
Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down,
Some baser monument of art to crown.

Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore,
That once the crowd beheld but to adore,
Rich with the proud exploits of AEthra's son,
And lofty conquests by Alcides won;–
The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear;
The passing pilgrim pauses to revere;
The pensive poet views its columns proud,
And Fancy hears again the anthem loud,
From kindling bards, that once arose on high,
A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky.

The inner shrine no more protects the slave, The holy walls no more the oppressed can save, The wretch no longer safety there can claim, And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name; Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb, His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.

To holier uses rise those walls on high,
And holier anthems murmur on the sky;
The shrine is crumbled to its native soil,
And pagan grandeur given as a spoil;
No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane,
And none to him prolong the adoring strain;
Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven,
To purer thoughts and holier prayers’tis given.

* The temple of Theseus at Athens—one of the most beautiful and entire remains of ancient art—was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was.


On the Death of a beautiful young Girl.—

'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus; when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,

A whirlwind from the desert comes, and “all is in the dust.”

'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings,
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast,
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

'Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this: One moment round about us their angel lightnings play; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.

'Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth,
Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute,
The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely luse.

'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with all that's best below:
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go;-
The bird that sings the sweetest; the vine that crowns the rock;
The glory of the garden; “the flower of the flock.”

Tis ever thus—’tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,

Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear:

A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love;

Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.

—oLines to a Lady of great musica, Talent.—MRs CHILD.

THANKs, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell
Has waked my soul to sound,

And, deep within a sealed well,
A spring of joy is found.

My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;

And fitful in its echoings
Has my spirit been before.

But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,

And bids me own thy wondrous art
The soul of the “tuneful Nine.”

Yes, all I’ve dreamed of bright or fair
Is but imbodied sound:

Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around !

All Nature hath of breezy grace,
In motion swift and free,_

Each lovely hue upon her face,
Is living melody.

Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,

And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;-

But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee;

For chained had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.

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Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlement of Charlestown.—PIERPont.”

Two hundred years!—two hundred years!—
How much of human power and pride,

* There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all truly sublime.—Ed.

What glorious hopes, what'gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide :-

The red man, at his horrid rite,
Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,_

His bark canoe, its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon;–

His dance, his yell, his counsel fire,
The altar where his victim lay,

His death-song, and his funeral pyre,
That still, strong tide hath borne away.

And that pale pilgrim band is gone,
That, on this shore, with trembling trod,

Ready to faint, yet bearing on
The ark of freedom and of God.

And war—that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,

And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark—its storm is still.

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,

Time, for the last two hundred years,
Has raised, and shown, and swept along.

'Tis like a dream when one awakes—
This vision of the scenes of old;

'Tis like the moon when morning breaks;
'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told.

Then what are we —then what are we?– Yes, when two hundred years have rolled

O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told.

God of our fathers, in whose sight
The thousand years, that sweep away

Man, and the traces of his might,
Are but the break and close of day,+

Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,

That makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity.

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