HERBERT KNOWLES. THE following stanzas are the production of a youth of only eighteen years of age, and are replete with originality and fancy, happily blended with Christian feeling. The author, whom disagreements with his family induced to enlist as a private soldier, died of consuniption at a very early age, in 1817. THE THREE TABERNACLES. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build,—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain: Who hid, in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah! no: they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no: for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. GEORGE W. DOANE. THE Rt. Rev. George Washington Doane, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in 1799. He was graduated at Union College, Schenectady, when nineteen years of age, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop Hobart, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officiated in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles-Lettres 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. The church has few more active, efficient, or popular prelates. Bishop Doane's "Songs by the Way," a collection of poems, chiefly devotional, were published in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college-life. He has since, from time to time, written poetry for festival-days and other occasions, but has published no second volume. THE VOICE OF RAMA. "Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted." That voice of bitter weeping! Is it the moan of fettered slave, Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains, Ah, no-a sorer ill than chains That tortured heart is breaking: 'Tis Rachel, of her sons bereft, Who lifts that voice of weeping; And childless are the eyes that there O! who shall tell what fearful pangs Her wasted form is bending! From many an eye that weeps to-day Bereaved one! I may not chide Thy tears and bitter sobbing Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow, And still that bosom's throbbing: But be not thine such grief as theirs To whom no hope is given― Snatched from the world, its sins and snares, THE WATERS OF MARAH. "And Moses cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which. when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet." By Marah's stream of bitterness When Moses stood and cried, Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer 'Tis but a Marah's fount, ordained Thy faith in God to prove, Its bitterness remove. WHAT is that, Mother?—The lark, my child!— And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!- Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother?—The eagle, boy!— What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!— Live so, my love, that when death shall come, |