No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed; Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed ;— The mighty river, as it onward swept, In one great, wholesale sob, his body drown'd and kept. That some great men had risen to falls, he went Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave; Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise, Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls Sam was a fool. But the large world of such Has thousands,-better taught, alike absurd, The kindly element to which he gave Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard That it was now his winding-sheet and grave, Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave. I say, the muse shall quite forget to sound The chord whose music is undying, if She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drown'd. Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff The Lesbian Sappho leap'd from in a miff, To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead, Because the wax did not continue stiff; And, had he minded what his father said, And Helle's case was all an accident, As everybody knows. Why sing of these? and from the Falls in the Genesee River, at Rochester. He did this, as he said, to show "that some things can be done as well as others;" and hence this, now, proverbial phrase. His last feat was in the summer of 1831, when, in the presence of many thousands, he jumped from above the highest rock over which the water falls in the Genesee, and was lost. He had drank too freely before going upon the scaffold, and lost his balance in descending. The above verses were written a few days after this event. Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went I think he call'd himself. Themselves to please, To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings, And while Niagara prolongs its thunder, Though still the rock primeval disappears, And nations change their bounds-the theme of wonder Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years; And if there be sublimity in tears, Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed Who would compare the maudlin Alexander, With Sam, whose grief we all can understand? And, measuring the cascade, found not his courage quell'd But, ere he leap'd, he begg'd of those who made Should perish, such collection should be paid As might be pick'd up from the "company" Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should know- When all the streams have worn their barriers low, Therefore it is considered, that Sam Patch Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme; Shall tell of him: he dived for the sublime, GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D.D., LL.D., Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the Diocese of New Jersey, was born in Trenton, New Jersey, on the 27th of May, 1799. At the age of nineteen, he graduated at Union College, and soon after commenced the study of theology. He officiated, for four years, as assistant minister in Trinity Church, New York, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles-Lettres and Oratory in Washington College, Hartford, Connecticut. This chair he resigned in 1828, and accepted an invitation from Trinity Church, Boston, as an assistant minister. The next year, he was married to Mrs. Eliza Greene Perkins, and, in 1830, was elected the rector of the church in which for two years he had officiated as assistant. On the 31st of October, 1832, he was consecrated Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church of New Jersey, and the next year became rector of St. Mary's Church, Burlington. Besides attending to the arduous duties of his official position, Bishop Doane has interested himself very much in the cause of education, and has labored assiduously to promote its best interests. In 1837, he founded St. Mary's Hall, Burlington, a school for young ladies; and, in 1846, Burlington College,-both of which are highly flourishing. Bishop Doane has published no large work upon any one subject; yet his publications have been numerous, consisting mostly of sermons, charges, and literary addresses. In 1824, he published a small volume of poetry, entitled Songs by the Way, chiefly Devotional; and, from time to time, occasional pieces of singular beauty. Indeed, throughout all his writings, both prose and poetry, there is seen a refined taste and a classic finish, that give him a rank among our purest writers. He died at Burlington, N. J. April 26th, 1859. ON AN 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, 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; And youthful faith disdain'd to rove- Till, soften'd and subdued, at last, He won his "fair and blooming bride." How, till the appointed day arrived, They stood, in all their youthful pride, All this it tells; the plighted troth- 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 hope 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, Remnant of days departed long, Of heartfelt, holy love, the token: THAT SILENT MOON. That silent moon, that silent moon, Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween, With sights like these, that virgin queen! By rippling wave, or tufted grove, And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless. The happy eves of days gone by; In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: On those who mourn, and those who die! But, beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendors may, Or bask them in the noontide ray; But, oh, be mine a fairer boon- GRENVILLE MELLEN, 1799-1841. JRENVILLE MELLEN, son of the late Chief-Justice Prentiss Mellen, LL.D., of Maine, was born in the town of Biddeford, in that State, on the 19th of June, 1799, and graduated at Harvard University in 1818. He entered the profession of the law, but, finding it not suited to his feelings, abandoned it for the more congenial attractions of poetry and general literature. He resided five or six years in Boston, and afterwards in New York. His health had always been rather deli |