THE Right Reverend GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years old, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officiated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles Lettres and Oratory in Washington College, Connecticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was conse

crated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. The church has few more active, efficient, or popular prelates.

Bishop DOANE's "Songs by the Way," a collection of poems, chiefly devotional, were published in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college-life. He has since, from time to time, written poetry for festival-days and other occasions; but he has published no second volume. His contributions to the religious literature of the country are more numerous and valuable.

ON A VERY 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,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,

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;
How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdain'd to rove-
How warmly he his suit preferr'd,

Though she, unpitying, long denied,
Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his "fair and blooming bride.”—

How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours-
How, then, the white-robed maiden train

Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowersAnd how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,

And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride:

All this it tells; the plighted troth-
The gift of every earthly thing-

The hand in hand-the heart in heart

For this I like that ancient ring.

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 hopes 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. "This heart is thine, mine own dear love!" Thine, and thine only, and forever; Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,

Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.

Remnant of days departed long,

Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness,

Of heartfelt, holy love the token: What varied feelings round it cling!For these I like that ancient ring.

THE VOICE OF RAMA.

"RACHEL Weeping for her children, and would not be comforted."

HEARD ye, from Rama's ruin'd walls, That voice of bitter weeping!

Is it the moan of fetter'd slave,

His watch of sorrow keeping? Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains, That cry of lamentation !—

Is it the wail of ISRAEL'S Sons,
For Salem's devastation?

Ah, no-a sorer ill than chains

That bitter wail is waking,

And deeper wo than Salem's fall That tortured heart is breaking: "Tis RACHEL, of her sons bereft,

Who lifts that voice of weeping;
And childless are the eyes that there
Their watch of grief are keeping.
O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave

Her wasted form is bending;
From many an eye that weeps to-day
Delight may beam to-morrow;
But she-her precious babe is not!
And what remains but sorrow?
Bereaved one! I may not chide

Thy tears and bitter sobbing-
Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing:
But be not thine such grief as theirs

To whom no hope is given

Snatch'd from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven.

THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
O! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth!
How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen!
But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,

And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes-

The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.
And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: O! softly beams her gentle eye

On those who mourn, and those who die!

But, beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendours may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
What power is hers to soothe the heart-
What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day :But, O! be mine a fairer boonThat silent moon, that silent moon!

THERMOPYLÆ.

"Twas an hour of fearful issues, When the bold three hundred stood, For their love of holy freedom,

By that old Thessalian flood; When, lifting high each sword of flame, They call'd on every sacred name, And swore, beside those dashing waves, They never, never would be slaves! And, O! that oath was nobly kept: From morn to setting sun Did desperation urge the fight

Which valour had begun;
Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain-cliff to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valour's, Glory's grave.
O, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart

The foeman's fetters spurn;
And firmly was the fight maintain'd,
And amply was the triumph gain'd;
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee:
They fell-TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

THE WATERS OF MARAH.

"And Moses cried unto the LORD, and the LORD showed him a tree, which, when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."

Br Marah's stream of bitterness
When Moses stood and cried,
JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer,
And instant help supplied:
The prophet sought the precious tree
With prompt, obedient feet;
'Twas cast into the fount, and made
The bitter waters sweet.

Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,

Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine:
"Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd
Thy faith in Gon to prove,
And prayer and resignation shall
Its bitterness remove.

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!—
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!-
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!—
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!-
He floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

A CHERUB.

"Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656.

-

BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless?

Be tiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies;
Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,

With the look and the voice of our darling boy-
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts
He had twined about with his infant arts,
To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,
In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.
Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;
Wiping the tears which unbidden start
From that bitter fount in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our lonely way,
Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray,
Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be,
Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,
As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast
That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.
And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,

A mirror'd image lies;
So be thy spirit ever pure,

To GoD and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear The imagery of heaven.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

LIFT not thou the wailing voice,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,—
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,

Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;
High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her no voice of wailing!
Pour not thou the bitter tear;

Heaven its book of comfort opeth; Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, But, as one who alway hopeth, Humbly here in faith relying, Peacefully in JESUS dying, Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,Why should thine with tears be gushing? They who die in CHRIST are bless'd,—

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!
Sweetly with their God they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth!

GRENVILLE MELLEN was the third son of the late Chief Justice PRENTISS MELLEN, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after leaving that seminary became a law-student in the office of his father, who had before that time removed to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the practice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a pleasant village near his native town. Within three years-in October, 1828-his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy.

I believe Mr. MELLEN did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire entitled "Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," appeared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the "Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem entitled "The Rest of Empires," in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immortalize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic of his best manner :

"We have been taught, in oracles of old,

Of the enskied divinity of song;

That Poetry and Music, hand in hand,

Came in the light of inspiration forth,

And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens.

And were those peerless bards, whose strains have come In an undying echo to the world,

Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles,

And made melodious all the hills of Rome,

Were they inspired 1-Alas, for Poetry!
That her great ministers, in early time,
Sung for the brave alone-and bade the soul
Battle for heaven in the ranks of war!
It was the treason of the godlike art
That pointed glory to the sword and spear,
And left the heart to moulder in its mail!

It was the menial service of the bard-
It was the basest bondage of his powers,
In later times to consecrate a feast,
And sing of gallantry in hall and bower,
To courtly knights and ladies.

"But other times have strung new lyres again,
And other music greets us. Poetry
Comes robed in smiles, and, in low breathing sounds,
Takes counsel, like a friend, in our still hours,
And points us to the stars-the waneless stars—
That whisper an hereafter to our souls.
It breathes upon our spirits a rich balm,
And, with its tender tones and melody,
Draws mercy from the warrior-and proclaims
A morn of bright and universal love

To those who journey with us through the vale; It points to moral greatness-deeds of mind, And the high struggles, worthy of a man. Have we no minstrels in our echoing halls, No wild CADWALLON, with his wilder strain, Pouring his war-songs upon helmed ears? We have sounds stealing from the far retreats Of the bright company of gifted men, Who pour their mellow music round our age, And point us to our duties and our hearts; The poet's constellation beams aroundA pensive CowPER lives in all his lines, And MILTON hymns us on to hope and heaven!” After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEN removed to New York, where he resided He wrote nearly all the remainder of his life. much for the literary magazines, and edited several works for his friend, Mr. COLMAN, the publisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Miscellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learning of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841.

Mr. MELLEN was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which preceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will preserve. They are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and unintelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius; no original, clear, and manly thought; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature; no humour, no pathos, no passion; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled « The Bu. gle," although "it whispers whence it stole its spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and unmeaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his works.

ENGLISH SCENERY.

THE woods and vales of England!—is there not A magic and a marvel in their names? Is there not music in the memory Of their old glory?-is there not a sound, As of some watchword, that recalls at night All that gave light and wonder to the day? In these soft words, that breathe of loveliness, And summon to the spirit scenes that rose Rich on its raptured vision, as the eye Hung like a tranced thing above the page That genius had made golden with its glowThe page of noble story-of high towers, And castled halls, envista'd like the line Of heroes and great hearts, that centuries Had led before their hearths in dim arrayOf lake and lawn, and gray and cloudy tree, That rock'd with banner'd foliage to the storm Above the walls it shadow'd, and whose leaves, Rustling in gather'd music to the winds, Seem'd voiced as with the sound of many seas! The woods and vales of England! O, the founts, The living founts of memory! how they break And gush upon my stirr❜d heart as I gaze! I hear the shout of reapers, the far low Of herds upon the banks, the distant bark Of the tired dog, stretch'd at some cottage door, The echo of the axe, mid forest swung, And the loud laugh, drowning the faint halloo.

Land of our fathers! though 'tis ours to roam
A land upon whose bosom thou mightst lie,
Like infant on its mother's-though 'tis ours
To gaze upon a nobler heritage

Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,-
Though ours to linger upon fount and sky,
Wilder, and peopled with great spirits, who
Walk with a deeper majesty than thine,—
Yet, as our father-land, O, who shall tell
The lone, mysterious energy which calls
Upon our sinking spirits to walk forth
Amid thy wood and mount, where every hill
Is eloquent with beauty, and the tale
And song of centuries, the cloudless years
When fairies walk'd thy valleys, and the turf
Rung to their tiny footsteps, and quick flowers
Sprang with the lifting grass on which they trod-
When all the landscape murmur'd to its rills,
And joy with hope slept in its leafy bowers!

MOUNT WASHINGTON.

MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there! Thine is the rock of other regions, where The world of life, which blooms so far below, Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far-off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne;

When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! And when the tumult of the air is fled, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name: The stars look down upon them; and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee The hoary mantle of the dying year, [throws Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!

THE BUGLE.

O! WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born

Wake, wake again, the night

Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense and eloquently bright.

Night, at its pulseless noon!

When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon.

Hark! how it sweeps away,

Soaring and dying on the silent sky,

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay!

Swell, swell in glory out!

Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start As boyhood's old remember'd shout.

O! have ye heard that peal, From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, Like some near breath around you steal?

Or have ye in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,

Where wings and tempests never soar?
Go, go-no other sound,

No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,
On midnight's fathomless profound!