"We therefore commit his body to the ground.”—Burial Service.
THE earth has fallen cold and deep
Above his narrow bier;
No wintry winds can break his sleep,
No thunders reach his ear.
The mourner's parting steps are gone,
Gone the last echoing sound;
And night's dark shadows, stealing on,
Spread solemn gloom around.
And he whose heart was wont to glow
With joy, when hastening home,
Here must he lie, cold, silent, now,
And mouldering in the tomb,-
Till time itself, and days, and years,
Shall all have passed away;
In that cold heart, no hopes nor fears
Shall hold their dubious sway.
Though deep the slumbers of the tomb,
Though dark that bed of clay,
Yet shall he wake, and leave that gloom,
For everlasting day.
On the Loss of a pious Friend.—Brainard.
Imitated from the 57th chapter of Isaiah.
WHO shall weep when the righteous die?
Who shall mourn when the good depart?
When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?
He has gone into peace; he has laid him down
To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day;
And he shall wake on that holy morn,
When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
But ye, who worship in sin and shame
Your idol gods, whate'er they be,—
Who scoff in your pride at your Maker's name,
By the pebbly stream and the shady tree,——
Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams,
Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray;
Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams,
But the wind shall carry them all away.
There's one who drank at a purer fountain,
One who was washed in a purer flood:
He shall inherit a holier mountain,
He shall worship a holier Lord.
But the sinner shall utterly fail and die,
Whelmed in the waves of a troubled sea;
And God, from his throne of light on high,
Shall say, "There is no peace for thee."
Icarus.*--FROM THE PORT-FOLIO.
HEARD'ST thou that dying moan of gasping breath,
The shriek of agony, despair and death?
Prone from his lofty station in the skies,
The lost adventurer falls, no more to rise;
Vain boast of earthly nature, that hath striven
To rival, in his flight, the lords of heaven!
Long o'er the azure air he winged his way,
And tracked the pure ethereal light of day,
On floating clouds of amber radiance hung,
And on the fragrant breeze his pinions flung;
But ah! forgetful that the blaze of noon
Would sweep his daring frame to earth too soon,
Spurning his sire, he rose sublime on high,
Lost in the radiance of the solar sky :
The melting wax proclaims his sad defeat;
He fades before the intolerable heat.
This piece, which was first published in the Port-Folio, was written, we believe, by Rev. J. W. Eastburn.-ED.
The heaving surge received him as he fell,
While sadder moaned the unaccustomed swell;
The Nereids caught him on the trembling waves,
And bore his body to their coral caves;
His funeral song they sung, and every surge
Murmured along his melancholy dirge:
Wide o'er the sparkling deep the sound was heard,
Mixed with the wailing of the ocean bird,
Then passed away, and all was still again
Upon the wide, unfathomable main;
But to that roaring sea immortal fame
Gave-to commemorate the deed-his name!
Sunset in September.*-CARLOS WILCOX.
THE SUN now rests upon the mountain tops→→
Begins to sink behind-is half concealed-
And now is gone: the last faint twinkling beam
Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge.
* Every person, who has witnessed the splendor of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuFiant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, fading, still fading,' till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow-banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-ED.
Sweet to the pensive is departing day,
When only one small cloud, so still and thin,
So thoroughly imbued with amber light,
And so transparent, that it seems a spot
Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount,
Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few
Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain,
At each end sharpened to a needle's point,
With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth,
And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream,
A half hour's space above the mountain lie;
Or when the whole consolidated mass,
That only threatened rain,
broken up
Into a thousand parts, and yet is one,
One as the ocean broken into waves;
And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep
The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed
Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark,
As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote,
All fading soon as lower sinks the sun,
Till twilight end. But now another scene,
To me most beautiful of all, appears:
The sky, without the shadow of a cloud,
Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow
So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye,
Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force
Its power of vision to admit the whole.
Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye,
Midway the blushing of the mellow peach
Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep;
And here, in this most lovely region, shines,
With added loveliness, the evening-star.
Above, the fainter purple slowly fades,
Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven.
Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun
Descended, in a single row arranged,
As if thus planted by the hand of art,
Majestic pines shoot up into the sky,
And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved.
Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands
With shafts erect, and tops converged to one,
A stately colonnade with verdant roof;
Upon a nearer still, a single tree,
With shapely form, looks beautiful alone;
While, farther northward, through a narrow pass
Scooped in the hither range, a single mount
Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems,
And of a softer, more ethereal blue,
A pyramid of polished sapphire built.
But now the twilight mingles into one
The various mountains; levels to a plain
This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade,
Where every object to my sight presents
Its shaded side; while here upon these walls,
And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks
Under thick foliage, reflective shows
Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line
Of the horizon parting heaven and earth!
From "The Buccaneer."-DANA.
A SOUND is in the Pyrenees!
Whirling and dark, comes roaring down
A tide, as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown.
On field and vineyard thick and red it stood.
Spain's streets and palaces are full of blood;—
And wrath and terror shake the land;
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band-
Bold Arthur and his knights.
Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain!
The spell is broke !-Arthur is come again!-
Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride :
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride.
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound-
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.
He fell for Spain-her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
At rest from strife and fear,
And wait, amidst her sorrows, till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.
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