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The departed, the departed
Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around, and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress-trees,

For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,

Can never be so dear to me

As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smilee
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.
I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.

"HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!"

How cheery are the mariners,—

Those lovers of the sea!

Their hearts are like its yesty waves,

As bounding and as free.

They whistle when the storm-bird wheels

In circles round the mast;

And sing when deep in foam the ship

Ploughs onward to the blast.

What care the mariners for gales?
There's music in their roar,

When wide the berth along the lee,
And leagues of room before.

Let billows toss to mountain-heights,
Or sink to chasms low,

The vessel stout will ride it out,
Nor reel beneath the blow.

With streamers down and canvass furl'd,
The gallant hull will float
Securely, as on inland lake

A silken-tassell'd boat:
And sound asleep some mariners,
And some with watchful eyes,
Will fearless be of dangers dark
That roll along the skies.

God keep those cheery mariners!
And temper all the gales

That sweep against the rocky coast
To their storm-shatter'd sails;
And men on shore will bless the ship
That could so guided be,

Safe in the hollow of His hand,
To brave the mighty sea!

SPORT.

To see a fellow of a summer's morning,
With a large foxhound of a slumberous eye,
And a slim gun, go slowly lounging by,
About to give the feather'd bipeds warning
That probably they may be shot hereafter,
Excites in me a quiet kind of laughter;
For, though I am no lover of the sport
Of harmless murder, yet it is to me
Almost the funniest thing on earth to see
A corpulent person, breathing with a snort,
Go on a shooting-frolic all alone;

For well I know that, when he's out of town,
He and his dog and gun will all lie down,

And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown.

PRESS ON.

Press on! there's no such word as fail!
Press nobly on! the goal is near,-
Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!
Look upward, onward,-never fear!
Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above,
Though storm and vapor intervene ;
That sun shines on, whose name is Love,
Serenely o'er Life's shadow'd scene.

Press on! surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps;

He wins, who dares the hero's march.

Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And through the ebon walls of night
Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! if Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks she now exalts,
Taking old gifts and granting new.
The wisdom of the present hour

Makes up for follies past and gone,-
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs,-press on! press on!

Press on what though upon the ground
Thy love has been pour'd out like rain?
That happiness is always found

The sweetest, which is born of pain.
Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms,
A bird sings from some blighted tree,
And, in the dreariest desert, blooms
A never-dying rose for thee.

Therefore, press on! and reach the goal,
And gain the prize, and wear the crown;
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul

Come wealth and honor and renown.
To thine own self be true, and keep

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap
A heavenly harvest for thy toil!

THE SEXTON.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Lean'd a sexton old on his earth-worn spade.
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train through the open gate:

A relic of bygone days was he,

And his locks were white as the foamy sea,And these words came from his lips so thin:

"I gather them in! I gather them in!

"I gather them in! for, man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial-ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude one by one,-
But, come they strangers or come they kin,
I gather them in! I gather them in!

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Come they from cottage or come they from hall,—
Mankind are my subjects,-all, all, all!

Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin,-
I gather them in! I gather them in!

"I gather them in,-and their final rest,

Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast ;”-
And the sexton ceased,-for the funeral train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain:
And I said to my heart,-When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din,---
"I gather them in! I gather them in!"

A LIFE OF LETTERED EASE.

A life of letter'd ease! what joy to lead
A life of intellectual calm and peace:
Such as a poet in a vale of Greece-
Thine, Arcady-might have enjoy'd, indeed,
Where hour on hour, untouch'd by haste or speed,
Might lapse serenely like a summer stream;
Where not a single thought of gain or greed

Could mar the murmurous music of his dream.
Oh that such life were mine!-to hoard, not spend!-
The golden moments would like ingots seem,
Each affluent day with new-found treasure teem,
And my large wealth have neither loss nor end.
Meet in the markets, merchants, as you please,-
Be mine the scholar's life of letter'd ease.

ROBERT T. CONRAD, 1809-1858,

ROBERT T. CONRAD, the son of John Conrad, who was for many years an extensive bookseller and publisher in Philadelphia, was born in that city on the 10th of June, 1809. He studied law with his uncle, Thomas Kittera, an eminent jurist, and was admitted to practice in 1830. While a student, he wrote his first tragedy, Conrad of Naples, which was quite successful, and is regarded by many as the best of his poems. Shortly after he was admitted to the bar, he connected himself with the press, and shared the editorial duties of some of the leading journals of the city; but, the labor proving too much for his health, he resumed the practice of his profession in 1834. On the 15th of July, 1836, he was appointed by Governor Ritner Recorder of the Recorder's Court; and on the 27th of March, 1838, with the unanimous recommendation of the bar, he was commissioned by the same Governor to be a Judge of the Court of Criminal Sessions for the city and county of Philadelphia,-being a higher and more extended jurisdiction. Upon the union of the several municipalities of Philadelphia into one great "consolidated" city in 1854, he was elected Mayor by a large majority. On

the resignation of Judge Kelley in 1856, he was appointed by Governor Pollock, on the 30th of November of that year, to fill the vacancy in the Court of Common Pleas and Quarter Sessions. But he did not live long to discharge the duties of this responsible post, as he died on Sunday, June 27, 1858.

In 1852, Judge Conrad published Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and other Poems. The tragedy of Aylmere is his principal production, and its merits as an acting play are said to be great. The hero, who assumes the name of Aylmere, is Jack Cade, the celebrated leader of the English peasantry in the insurrection of 1450. The other principal poems of our author are,-The Sons of the Wilderness, a meditative poem on the aborigines of our land; and a series of Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer, marked by great vigor as well as beauty and pathos.

THE PRIDE OF WORTH.

There is a joy in worth,

A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm;
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm,
Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth;
Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm.
It asks, it needs no aid;

It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne:
There, in its self-created heaven, alone,

No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid,
It sits a lesser God;-life, life is all its own!
The stoic was not wrong:

There is no evil to the virtuous brave;
Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave,

Worshipp'd or scorn'd, alone or 'mid the throng,
He is himself, -a man! not life's nor fortune's slave.

Power and wealth and fame

Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide:
Give me but these,- -a spirit tempest-tried,

A brow unshrinking, and a soul of flame,

The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride!

SONNET.-THY KINGDOM COME!

Thy kingdom come! Speed, angel wings, that time!
Then, known no more the guile of gain, the leer
Of lewdness, frowning power or pallid fear,
The shriek of suffering or the howl of crime,
All will be Thine,-all blest! Thy kingdom come!
Then in Thy arms the sinless earth will rest,
As smiles the infant on its mother's breast.
The dripping bayonet and the kindling drum
Unknown, for not a foe; the thong unknown,-

For not a slave; the cells o'er which Despair
Flaps his black wing and fans the sigh-swollen air,
Deserted! Night will pass and hear no groan;
Glad Day look down, nor see nor guilt nor guile,
And all that Thou hast made reflect Thy smile.

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