THE POWER OF MUSIC.* HEAR yon poetic pilgrimt of the west Chant music's praise, and to her power attest; Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws; Who hangs the canvass where ATALA glows, On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded: Who, for the son of OUTALISSI, twines Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss That Time already sprinkles on the cross Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps, And Superstition o'er her victim weeps; Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, Among Scioto's monumental mounds; Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below, By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, Lost in those towering tombs of other times; For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame, No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame. With sacred lore this traveller beguiles His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves, Or through the wide and green savanna roves, His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest breath of Idumea's airs. Now he recalls the lamentable wail That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, A note for SATAN's and for HEROD's ear. Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd, And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. How fondly then, from all but hope exiled, To Zion's wo recurs religion's child! He sees the tear of JUDAH's captive daughters Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters; While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung, Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'er the billow, And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. 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, heart 103 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; And to give this house to thee. When, for business on great waters, That there's One who heareth prayer, In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd, When we long have lain becalm'd, As the offerings we shall bring For the shadow of his wing. When in port, each day that's holy, We'll repeat its sacred songs. 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! 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, Beneath whose burnish'd leaves we see Such clusters as pour'd out the wine? Among those leaves an adder hangs! I fear him;-for I've felt his fangs. The Hebrew, who the desert trod, And felt the fiery serpent's bite, Look'd up to that ordain'd of Gon, And found that life was in the sight. So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins Cool, when he drinks what God ordains. 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; Bow to thee alone. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [Born, 1785. Died, 1842.] MR. WOODWORTH was a native of Scituate, in Massachusetts. After learning in a country town the art of printing, he went to New York, where he was editor of a newspaper during our second war with England. He subsequently published a weekly miscellany entitled "The Ladies' Literary Gazette," and in 1823, associated with Mr. GEORGE P. MORRIS, he established "The New York Mirror," long the most popular journal of literature and art in this country. For several years before his death he was an invalid, and in this period a large number of the leading gentlemen of New York acted as a committee for a complimentary benefit given for him at the Park Theatre, the proceeds of which made more pleasant his closing days. He died in the month of December, 1842, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, much respected by all who knew him, for his modesty and integrity as well as for his literary abilities. Mr. WOODWORTH wrote many pieces for the stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic life. He dwelt always with delight upon the scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was compelled to make his home amid the strife and tumult of a city. He was the poet of the "common people," and was happy in the belief that "The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never heard of "Thanatopsis." Some of his pieces have certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection might be made from his voluminous writings that would be very honourable to his talents and his feelings. There has been no recent edition of any of his works. THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well- THE NEEDLE. THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; But give me the fair one, in country or city, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, While plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. If Love have a potent, a magical token, A talisman, ever resistless and trueA charm that is never evaded or broken, A witchery certain the heart to subdue"Tis this-and his armoury never has furnish'd So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart; Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnish'd, And Oh! it is certain of touching the heart. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, Each cheerfully active and playing her part, Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. ANDREWS NORTON. [Born, 1786. Died, 1853.] THE late eminent scholar, ANDREWS NORTON, | descended from the father of the celebrated JOHN NORTON, minister of Ipswich, was born in Hingham, near Boston, on the thirty-first of December, 1786. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1804; studied divinity, and for a short time, in 1809, preached in Augusta, Maine; spent a year as tutor in Bowdoin College; for another year was tutor in mathematics at Cambridge; in 1812 commenced the "General Repository," a religious and literary magazine, which he conducted with remarkable ability two years; in 1813 was chosen librarian of Harvard College, which office he held eight years; about the same time was appointed lecturer on the criticism and interpretation of the Scriptures, in the college, and on the organization of the Divinity School, in 1819, Dexter professor of sacred literature; in 1821 was married to CATHERINE, daughter of SAMUEL ELIOT, of Boston; in 1822 delivered an address before the university on the life and character of his friend Professor FRISBIE, whose literary remains he afterward edited; in 1826, collected the poems of Mrs. HEMANS, and prepared for the press the first American edition of them; in 1828 ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. . FAREWELL! before we meet again, I have to journey on alone; To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, But ne'er a deeper pang to know, Than when I watched thy slow decay, And felt at last each hope give way. May warn me of mortality. All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, 106 passed several months in England, and in 1830 resigned his professorship, to reside at Cambridge as a private gentleman. and completion of those important works in critiHe now turned his attention to the composition cism and theology which have established his fame as one of the greatest scholars of the last age. His "Statement of Reasons for not Believing the Docvolume of his "Genuineness of the Gospels." in trine of the Trinity" appeared in 1833; the first ity," in 1839; the second and third volumes on 1837; a treatise "On the Latest Form of Infidelthe "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1844; "The Internal Evidences of the Gospels," in 1851; and "Tracts on Christianity," in 1852. He died at his the eighteenth of September, 1853; and his last summer residence, in Newport, on the evening of work, a new "Translation of the Gospels," has able, ingenious, and thoroughly accomplished writer been published since his death. He was the most of the Unitarian party in America. What he was, and what he might have been, ished and beautiful productions. in poetry, is evinced by the following highly fin I shall not know thy soothing power, And stood, the guardian of my tomb. 'I was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And blend 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. 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 From world to world with ceaseless flight; And love, that follows and adores, As nature spreads before her sight. How vivid still past scenes appear! I feel as though all were not o'er; But I shall hear it; in that day Whose setting sun I may not view, When earthly voices die away, Thine will at last be heard anew. We meet again; a little while, And where thou art I too shall be. HYMN. MY GOD, 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; 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; A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er-How dense and bright In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The soften'd sunbeams pour around Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, The sun breaks forth-from off the scene, Now gaze on nature-yet the same- Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. Hear the ricn music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence-low-born care, Refuse to breathe this holy air, |