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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,
Backward he springs; and through his bounding

heart

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Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thickens on his gums;
His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry;
A spark of hell lies burning on his eye:
While, like a vapour o'er his writhing rings.
Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings
Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,
From his soft flute throws music's air around,
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground.
See! as the plaintive melody is flung,
The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue;
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold;
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;

His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye;
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.
Slowly the charm retires: with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides;
While music throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound.

OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM.

STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forgot that thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,-that noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,

In the greatness of thy fame.
Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither

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;
Thy cold clay, we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,-but we must.

THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.*

THOU, who on the whirlwind ridest,
At whose word the thunder roars,
Who, in majesty, presidest

O'er the oceans and their shores;
From those shores, and from the oceans,
We, the children of the sea,
Come to pay thee our devotions,

And to give this house to thee.

When, for business on great waters,
We go down to sea in ships,
And our weeping wives and daughters
Hang, at parting, on our lips,
This, our Bethel, shall remind us,

That there's One who heareth prayer,
And that those we leave behind us
Are a faithful pastor's care.
Visions of our native highlands,

In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd,
Winds that come from spicy islands

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,
I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!

Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree,
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,
And, as from that, there comes from thee

The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die."
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;—
A snake is twisted round thy stem!

*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!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play

With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd,
On the heights where squadrons wheel'd,
When a tyrant's thunder peal'd

O'er the trembling seas.
Gon of armies! did thy "stars
In their courses" smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars

From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldiers' urn
Who for freedom died.

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Gon of peace!-whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,

Now the storm is o'er ;-
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future WASHINGTONS
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there's war no more.

By the patriot's hallow'd rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,
Never let our graves be press'd

By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,-let our heirs

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,
For often at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness,it rose from the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket that hangs in the well!

THE NEEDLE.

THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling
In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling

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,
Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown,
That lie in distant years of pain,

I have to journey on alone;

To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel,
Perchance with joys thou canst not share;
And when we both were wont to kneel,
To breathe alone the silent prayer;

But ne'er a deeper pang to know,

Than when I watched thy slow decay,
Saw on thy cheeck the hectic glow,

And felt at last each hope give way.
But who the destined hour may tell,
That bids the loosened spirit fly?
E'en now this pulse's feverish swell

May warn me of mortality.
But chance what may, thou wilt no more
With sense and with my hours beguile,
Inform with learning's various lore,
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,
Should friends desert, and life decline,

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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,
Nor hear thee say, "My heart is thine."
If thou hadst lived, thy well-earned fame
Had bade my fading prospect bloom,
Had cast its lustre o'er my name,

And stood, the guardian of my tomb.
Servant of GOD! thy ardent mind,
With lengthening years improving still,
Striving, untired, to serve mankind,
Had thus performed thy Father's will.
Another task to thee was given;

'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.
Servant of GOD! thou art not there;
Thy race of virtue is not run;
What blooms on earth of good and fair,

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
To when in summer's moonlight walk,
Of all that now is thine to learn,

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;
As though 't were strange I cannot hear
Thy voice of friendship yet once more.

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.
And then, with what an angel smile
Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me!

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;
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!

A SUMMER SHOWER.

THE rain is o'er-How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the deep-blue sky!

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
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool, the scented ground
Is breathing odours on the gale.

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest to gaze below a while,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth-from off the scene,
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung.

Now gaze on nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

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,
And all the train of mean desire,

Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And mid this living light expire.

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