Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, The streets of Salem now, But still the seed of ABRAHAM Yes; every morning, as the day The holy name of ALLAH comes At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, "Lo, Gon is GoD! Before him come, I know, when at that solemn call That OMAR's mosque hears not the name But ABRAHAM'S Gon is worshipp'd there In spirit and in truth." Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt To this, when Egypt's ARRAHAM Have bow'd before the Lord. would have mused, while night hung out Her silver lamp so pale, Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive trees Are shading yet, and in their shade He sought the Father there. As near him as they could, I would have stood, till night o'er earth Thy cross thou bearest now! And blood is on thy brow; And now thy cross is on thee laid— The crescent is thy cross! It was not mine, nor will it be, To see the bloody rod That scourgeth thee, and long hath securged Thou city of our God! But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murder'd seers, And voices that went up from it Are ringing in my ears,— Went up that day, when darkness fell And shrouded thee at noon; and when Thy feet, gave up their dead :- HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD! This name is now generally written IBRAHIM. 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 e 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 Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides; The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue; OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM. STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee In the greatness of thy fame. 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, 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, We'll repeat its sacred songs. Heaved by many a tempest's strife. On our hearts and minds, that we, THE SPARKLING BOWL. Thou sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bow!' 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, 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, SeptemDer fourth. 1833. Thou iquid fire. like that which glow'd 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? GoD of peace!-whose spirit fills Now the storm is o'er ;- By the patriot's hallow'd rest, 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 | modesty and integrity as well as for his literary Massachusetts. After learning in a country town abilities. 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 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, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well- That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, far removed from the loved habitation, THE NEEDLE. THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; 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 true- A witchery certain the heart to subdue- And Oh! it is certain of touching the heart Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all And plying the needle with exquisite art. ANDREWS NORTON. [Born, 1786. Dled, 1853 1 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 lite rary 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, Saw on thy cheeck the hectic glow, And felt at last each hope give way. 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, passed several months in England, and in 1830 resigned his professorship, to reside at Cambridge as a private gentleman. He now turned his attention to the composition and completion of those important works in criticism 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 Doctrine of the Trinity" appeared in 1833; the first volume of his "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1837; a treatise "On the Latest Form of Infidelity," in 1839; the second and third volumes on the "Genuineness of the Gospels," in 1844; The Internal Evidences of the Gospels," in 1851; and "Tracts on Christianity," in 1852. He died at his summer residence, in Newport, on the evening of the eighteenth of September, 1853; and his last work, a new “ Translation of the Gospels," has been published since his death. He was the most able, ingenious, and thoroughly accomplished writer of the Unitarian party in America. What he was, and what he might have been, in poetry, is evinced by the following highly finished and beautiful productions. I shall not know thy soothing power, 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; 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? |