HYMN FOR THE MASSACHUSETTS CHARITABLE

ASSOCIATION.

LOUD o'er thy savage child,

O God, the night wind roars,
As, houseless, in the wild

He bows him, and adores.

Thou seest him there,

As to the sky

He lifts his eye

Alone in prayer.

Thine inspiration comes!

In Skill the blessing falls!

The field around him blooms,
The temple rears its walls,

And saints adore,

And music swells,

Where savage yells

Were heard before.

To honor thee, dread Power,

Our SKILL and STRENGTH Combine;

And temple, tomb and tower

Attest these gifts of thine;

A swelling dome
For Pride they gild,

For Peace they build
An humbler home.

By these our fathers' host
Was led to victory first,
When on our guardless coast
The cloud of battle burst.
Through storm and spray,
By these controlled,

Our navies hold

Their thundering way.

Great Source of every art!

Our homes, our pictured halls,

Our thronged and busy mart,
That heaves its granite walls,

And shoots to heaven

Its glittering spires,

To catch the fires

Of morn and even,

These, and the breathing forms
The brush or chisel gives,

With this, when marble warms,
With that, when canvass lives,—

These all combine,

In countless ways,

To swell thy praise ;

For all are thine!

HYMN FOR THE TWO-HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY

OF THE SETTLEMENT OF CHARLESTOWN.

Two hundred years!-two hundred years!—
How much of human power and pride,

What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears,
Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!-

The red man, at his horrid rite,

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,—
His bark canoe, its track of light

Left on the wave beneath the moon ;

His dance, his yell, his counsel fire,
The altar where his victim lay,

His death-song and his funeral pyre,

That still, strong tide hath borne away.

And that pale pilgrim band is gone,

That, on this shore, with trembling trod,

Ready to faint, yet bearing on

The ark of freedom and of God.

And war-that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark-its storm is still.

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, That live in story and in song,

Time, for the last two hundred years,

Has raised, and shown, and swept along.

'Tis like a dream when one awakesThis vision of the scenes of old; 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks; 'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told.

Then what are we !-then what are we !—
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.

God of our fathers,-in whose sight
The thousand years, that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,

Are but the break and close of day,—

Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
That makes thy children, in all time,

To share thine own eternity.

NAPOLEON AT REST.

HIS falchion waved along the Nile,
His host he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unrolled-and froze!

Here sleeps he now, alone!—not one,
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son

Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star

That led him on from crown to crown,

Has sunk, and nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled-
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.