THE POWER OF MUSIC.* HEAR yon poetic pilgrim† of the west Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears Or through the wide and green savanna roves, Now he recalls the lamentable wail That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, And could not music soothe the captive's wo? But should that harp be strung for JUDAH's foe? While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanced between a revery and a dream, The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides; His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye; OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM. STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee In the greatness of thy fame. On the spot where thou shalt rest; "Tis in love we bear thee thither, To thy mourning mother's breast. For the stores of science brought us, For the charm thy goodness gave To the lessons thou hast taught us, Can we give thee but a grave? Nature's priest, how pure and fervent Was thy worship at her shrine! Friend of man, of God the servant, Advocate of truths divine,Taught and charm'd as by no other We have been, and hoped to be; But, while waiting round thee, brother, For thy light, 't is dark with thee. Dark with thee?-No; thy Creator, All whose creatures and whose laws Thou didst love, shall give thee greater Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. To thy God, thy godlike spirit Back we give, in filial trust; THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.* THOU, who on the whirlwind ridest, O'er the oceans and their shores; When, for business on great waters, We go down to sea in ships, That there's One who heareth prayer, In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd, When we long have lain becalm'd, Are not to our souls so pleasant As the offerings we shall bring Hither, to the Omnipresent, For the shadow of his wing. When in port, each day that's holy, To this house we'll press in throngs; When at sea, with spirit lowly, We'll repeat its sacred songs. Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, Lose its flag behind the seas; Homeward bound, we'll greet with gladness Its first floating on the breeze. Homeward bound!-with deep emotion, We remember, Lord, that life Is a voyage upon an ocean, Heaved by many a tempest's strife. Be thy statutes so engraven On our hearts and minds, that we, Anchoring in Death's quiet haven, All may make our home with thee. THE SPARKLING BOWL. THOU sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl! Though lips of bards thy brim may press, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll, And song and dance thy power confess, Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree, The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die." *Written for the dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, under the direction of the Boston Port Society, September fourth, 1833. Thou liquid fire! like that which glow'd On Melita's surf-beaten shore, Thou'st been upon my guests bestow'd, But thou shalt warm my house no more. For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls, Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls! What, though of gold the goblet be, Emboss'd with branches of the vine, Such clusters as pour'd out the wine? The Hebrew, who the desert trod, And found that life was in the sight. Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells! Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip! Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells Gush o'er your granite basin's lip! To you I look ;-your largess give, And I will drink of you, and live. FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. DAY of glory! welcome day! With thy morning breeze, O'er the trembling seas. From the heaving tide? Gon of peace!-whose spirit fills Now the storm is o'er ;- By the patriot's hallow'd rest, By a despot's throne; ANDREWS NORTON. [Born 1786.] MR. NORTON was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterward tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He | resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman. Mr. NORTON is author of "The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels," published, in an octavo volume, in 1837; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited rare scholarship and argumentative abilities. His poetical writings are not numerous. O, STAY thy tears! for they are blest For labouring Virtue's anxious toil, For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh, For Faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, Heaven grants the recompense, to die. How blest are they whose transient years Pass like an evening meteor's flight; Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears; Whose course is short, unclouded, bright. How cheerless were our lengthen'd way, Did heaven's own light not break the gloom; Stream downward from eternal day, And cast a glory round the tomb! Then stay thy tears; the blest above Have hail'd a spirit's heavenly birth; Sung a new song of joy and love, And why should anguish reign on earth? WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. FAREWELL! before we meet again, To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, To breathe alone the silent prayer; But ne'er a deeper pang to know, But who the destined hour may tell, But chance what may, thou wilt no more Or charm with friendship's kindest smile Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, And stood the guardian of my tomb. Servant of Gon! thy ardent mind, With lengthening years improving still, Striving, untired, to serve mankind, Had thus perform'd thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given; "T was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to the blow; With patient smile and steady eye, To meet each pang that sickness gave, And see with lingering step draw nigh The form that pointed to the grave. Servant of GoD! thou art not there; Will ripen in another sun. Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears? Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return We framed no light nor fruitless talk. We spake of knowledge, such as soars As nature spreads before her sight. How vivid still past scenes appear! I feel as though all were not o'er; Whose setting sun I may not view, Thine will at last be heard anew. We meet again; a little while, And where thou art I too shall be. And then, with what an angel smile Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me! HYMN. Mr Gon, I thank thee! may no thought E'er deem thy chastisements severe; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. Thy mercy bids all nature bloom; The sun shines bright, and man is gay; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom That darkens o'er his little day. Full many a throb of grief and pain Thy frail and erring child must know; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow. Thy various messengers employ; Thy purposes of love fulfil; And, mid the wreck of human joy, May kneeling faith adore thy will! FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way Nay, sink not; though from every limb Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone, Bear firmly; yet a few more days, And thy hard trial will be past; Christian! thy Friend, thy Master pray'd, O! think'st thou that his Father's love Shone round him then with fainter rays Than now, when, throned all height above, Unceasing voices hymn his praise? THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. ANOTHER year! another year! The unceasing rush of time sweeps on; Whelm'd in its surges, disappear Man's hopes and fears, forever gone! O, no! forbear that idle tale! The hour demands another strain, Demands high thoughts that cannot quail, And strength to conquer and retain. "T is midnight-from the dark-blue sky, The stars, which now look down on earth, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, And given to countless changes birth. And when the pyramids shall fall, And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, The dwellers on this alter'd ball May still behold them glorious there. Shine on! shine on! with you I tread O! what concerns it him, whose way Lies upward to the immortal dead, That a few hairs are turning gray, Or one more year of life has fled? Swift years! but teach me how to bear, To feel and act with strength and skill, To reason wisely, nobly dare, And speed your courses as ye will. When life's meridian toils are done, How calm, how rich the twilight glow! The morning twilight of a sun Which shines not here on things below. But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain To leave, or lose wife, children, friends! What then-shall we not meet again Where parting comes not, sorrow ends? The fondness of a parent's care, The changeless trust which woman gives, The smile of childhood,-it is there That all we love in them still lives. Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being! feel thy power, Pursue thy bright and endless way. |