Classmate, gentle Classmate! fast
The dizzy wheel of time flies round!
Scarce a moment doth it seem

Since thy blushing brow was bound
With the cloistered college crown,
Meekly worn, but nobly won.
As our little band departed,

Pilgrims from our classic home,
Joyous each and happy-hearted,

Through life's untried scenes to roam,
Little wrecked we of its sorrow.

Joy to-day and grief to-morrow!

But alas, the thorny way

Hath entangled many feet,
And how many are reposing

Where the churchyard tenants meet!
But no purer name than thine
Fills the tablet's mournful line.

Ashes to ashes -dust to dust!

'Tis written that the glowing cheek
In its youthful bloom must fade,

As fades the rainbow's painted streak.
The silver head, the locks of gold,

The reverend sage, the humble child,
Must vanish, with the crumbling mould
In rolling hillock's o'er them piled!

Gentle Pilgrim-fare thee well!
In thy dewy morn of day,
Yielding scrip and staff and shell,
Thou hast fainted by the way!
All who fill this vast procession,
Travelling down the vale of tears,
Will be shortly sleeping with thee,

Vexed no more with toils and fears.

The editor of the "Boston Mercantile Journal," pays the following tribute to his superior talent, and high Christian character, in an obituary notice of his death. The editor of "the New-York Journal of Commerce," of which Mr. Thatcher was a correspondent, paid hima like worthy tribute.

"Mr. Thatcher is well known in this country and in Europe, for his scientific and literary attainments—and wherever known has been respected and loved for his kind disposition, and his high moral qualities, as well as for the great variety of knowledge which he was master of and the announcement of his death will carry sadness to many

a heart. He was educated to the profession of the law, but his great aim through life appears to have been to acquire knowledge, and to diffuse it abroad for the purpose of enlightening, elevating and improving the human race. For several years past he has devoted himself exclusively to literary pursuits—and if his career, by a wise Providence, had not been abridged, he would have been surpassed by few of his countrymen in rendering true service to his country-and would have acquired a fame to endure for ages. Many of his writings are before the world—they bear the stamp of worth, and have been read with much interest in this country and Europe-and he has doubtless left many important manuscripts, which, it is to be hoped, his friends will give the public at some future day. Mr. Thatcher was at one time editor of this paper—and since it has been committed to our care, the columns have frequently been enriched by his contributions—and in his death we lose "a friend, faithful and just." It is now nearly two years since he returned from Europe, where he had passed many months, in travel, and in studying the manners and characteristics of the inhabitants-chiefly in Great Britain. He was there attacked with a chronic affection of the stomach-and on his return to this country, he suffered much from ill health. Since then, he has been gradually declining—but he has never neglected his literary pursuits, or his accustomed exercise of walking, until within a few days. He was conscious of the approach of death, which at last came upon him suddenly-but he met the grim king of terrors like a Christian philosopher and his last moments were soothed by the benignant spirit of Religion. The death of B. B. Thatcher has left a blank in society that will not be easily filled."

COME to my breast, thou lone And weary bird (e)! - one tone Of the rare music of my childhood!·

Is that strange sound to me;

Dear is the memory

dear

It brings my soul of many a parted year.

Again, yet once again,

O minstrel of the main !

Lo festal face and form familiar throng
Unto my waking eye;

And voices of the sky

Sing from the walls of death unwonted song.

Nay, cease not I would call,

Thus, from the silent hall

Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:

Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,

Startling life-blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not-phantoms fair

Fill thick the dungeon's air;

They wave me from its gloom - I fly-I stand Again upon that spot,

Which ne'er hath been forgot

In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!

There, on each noon-bright hill,

By fount and flashing rill,

Slowly the faint flocks sought the breczy shade;
There gleam'd the sunset's fire,

On the tall taper spire,

And windows low, along the upland glade.

Sing, sing! I do not dream

It is my own blue stream,

Far, far below, amid the balmy vale ;

I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,

Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:

There, there, mid clust'ring leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,

And the worn threshold of my youth beneath;

I know them by the moss,

And the old elms that toss

Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's

gray

wreath.

May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but now; —

Sing, sing!-I might have knelt

And pray'd; I might have felt

Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.

I might have press'd to this

Cold bosom, in my bliss,

Each long lost form that ancient hearth beside;

O heaven! I might have heard,

From living lips, one word,

Thou mother of my childhood,

and have died.

Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep,

Ere yet in death I sleep;

It minds me I have been, and am again,

And the world wakes around;

It breaks the madness bound,

While I have dream'd, those ages, on my brain.

And sweet it is to love

Even this gentle dove,

This breathing thing from all life else apart:

Ah! leave me not the gloom

Of my eternal tomb

free;

My bird! Thou shalt go

And come, O come to me

Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows; So shall I learn, at least,

One other year hath ceased,

And the long woe throbs lingering to its close.