So should it be-for no heart beats The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this-his deep repose Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close, No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. Farewell! I go my distant way; Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day, May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form Inspire in me the firm endeavourLike thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever. THE WINTER NIGHT. "TIs the high festival of night! And mark the heaven's reflected glow And where the streams, with tinkling clash, And see, beyond, how sweetly still From every mountain's towering head Were gushing down its lofty side; The idler, on his silken bed, The rapture of her mighty heart. DEATH. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold The bright, young thoughts of early days And not the later cares, whose trace And let me hear that gentle tread I go, but let no plaintive tone Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this? AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light' The wind breathes low; the withering leaf When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills The crimson light is shed! When loved ones breathe their last. But soon the morning's happier light GRENVILLE MELLEN. [Born, 1799. Died, 1841.] GRENVILLE MELLEN was the third son of the iate Chief Justice PRENTISS MELLEN, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after leaving that seminary became a law-student in the office of his father, who had before that time removed to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the prac tice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a pleasant village near his native town. Within three years-in October, 1828-his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy. I believe Mr. MELLEN did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire entitled "Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," appeared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the " Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the "Buried Valley" he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem entitled "The Rest of Empires," in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immortalize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic of his best manner : "We have been taught, in oracles of old, Of the enskied divinity of song; That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, Came in the light of inspiration forth, And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. And were those peerless bards, w' se strains have come In an undying echo to the world, Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, And made melodious all the hills of Rome, Were they inspired?—Alas, for Poetry! That her great ministers, in early time, Sung for the brave alone-and bade the soul It was the menial service of the bard- "But other times have strung new lyres again, To those who journey with us through the vale; After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEN removed to New York, where he resided nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote much for the literary magazines, and edited several works for his friend, Mr. COLMAN, the publisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Miscellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learning of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841. serve. Mr. MELLEN was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which preceded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will preThey are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and unintelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius; no original, clear, and manly thought; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature; no humour, no pathos, no passion; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled "The Bu. gle," although it whispers whence it stole its spoils," is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and unmeaning epithets which distinguish nearly all h ́s works. 66 ENGLISH SCENERY. THE Woods and vales of England!—is there not Of their old glory?—is there not a sound, Land of our fathers! though 'tis ours to roam Than thou couldst e'er unshadow to thy sons,- MOUNT WASHINGTON. MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night, To chant immortal songs to Freedom there! Thine is the rock of other regions, where The world of life, which blooms so far below, Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far-off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, rouny cliffs are borne; When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb, The storms come forth, and, hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! And when the tumult of the air is fled, And quench'd in silence all the tempest flame, There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, Around the steep which bears the hero's name: The stars look down upon them; and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave, The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave! Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee The hoary mantle of the dying year, [throws Sublime amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! "Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear, Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view! THE BUGLE. O! WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born Wake, wake again, the night Is bending from her throne of beauty down, Night, at its pulseless noon! When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon. Hark! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky, As if some sprite of sound went wandering by With lone halloo and roundelay! Swell, swell in glory out! Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart Or have ye in the roar Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise, No music that of air or earth is born, ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT. SAIL on, thou lone, imperial bird, Of quenchless eye and tireless wing; As the night's breezes round thee ring! Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now? So closely to this shadowy world, Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest, Thy eyry desolate, though high; And lonely thou, alike at rest, Or soaring in the upper sky. The golden light that bathes thy plumes Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs, So come the cagle-hearted down, So come the high and proud to earth, When life's night-gathering tempests frown Over their glory and their mirth. So quails the mind's undying eye, That bore, unveil'd, fame's noontide sun; So man seeks solitude, to die, His high place left, his triumphs done. So, round the residence of power, A cold and joyless lustre shines, And on life's pinnacles wil! lower Clouds, dark as bathe the eagle's pines. But, O, the mellow light that pours From Gon's pure throne-the light that saves! It warms the spirit as it soars, And sheds deep radiance round our graves. THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. ITALIA'S vales and fountains, I love my soaring mountains Seem dim through Nature's tears, Still, tell me not of years of old, Or ancient heart and clime; Ours is the land and age of gold, And ours the hallow'd time! The jewell'd crown and sceptre Of Greece have pass'd away; Could bid her splendour stay. The victor's footsteps point to doom, Rome with thy giant sons of power, I would not have my land like thee, Be hers a lowlier majesty, Thy marbles-works of wonder! Before the astonish'd gaze; O, ours a holier hope shall be To snatch us from the dust. Shall fix our image here,— The spirit's mould of loveliness A nobler BELVIDERE! Then let them bind with bloomless flower The busts and urns of old,— A fairer heritage be ours, A sacrifice less cold! Give honour to the great and good, So, when the good and great go down, To crowd those temples of our own, And when the sculptured marble falls, GEORGE W. DCANE. [Born 1799. Died 1859.] THE Right Reverend GEORGE W. DOANE, D.D., Bishop DOANE'S "Songs by the Way," a collec i.L.D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in tion of poems, chiefly devotional, were published 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Sche- in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced nectady, when nineteen years of age, and imme- during his college life. He has since, from time to diately after commenced the study of theology. He time, written poetry for festival-days and other oc was ordained deacon by Bishop HOBART, in 1821, casions, but has published no second volume. His and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He offi- published sermons, charges, conventional addressciated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, es, literary and historical discourses, and other puband, in 1824, was appointed professor of belles let-lications in prose, amount to more than one buntres and Oratory in Washington College, Connecticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. dred, and fill more than three thousand octavo pages. His writings generally are marked by refinement and elegance, and evince a profound devotion to the interests of the Protestant Episcopal Church. Year after year, 'neath sun and storm, Their hopes in heaven, their trust in Gon, These two the world's rough pathway trod. Kind souls! they slumber now together. I like its simple poesy too: "Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!" Thine, when the dark storm howls along, As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. "This heart is thine, mine own dear love!" Thine, and thine only, and forever; Thine, till the springs of life shall fail, Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long, Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Of heartfelt, holy love the token: MALLEUS DOMINI. JEREMIAH xxii. 29. SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke I hear thy pond'rous echoes ring, Meekly, these mercies I implore, |