I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have

Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own.

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MISCELLANEOUS,

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed. on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we suw; This is the field and Acre of our God.

This is the place, where to harvests grow!

O

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

RIVER! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free,

Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent Rive
Many a lesson, deep and long ;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a sʊng

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,

I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because, thy waves of blue

From celestial seas above thee

Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear,

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

More than this;-thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried ;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy sidc.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'T is for this, thou Silent Kiver!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver.

Take this idle song from me.

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