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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 consumption at a very early age, in 1817.
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,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. 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 the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 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;
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no: they have withered and died,
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve ;
Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
Ah! no: for his empire is known,
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 ;
And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice,
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.
from Rama's ruined walls,
His watch of sorrow keeping ?
of lamentation !
For Salem's devastation ?
Ah, no—a sorer ill than chains
That bitter wail is waking,
That tortured heart is breaking:
Who lifts that voice of weeping ;
Their watch of grief are keeping.
O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
Her wasted form is bending !
weeps to-day Delight may beam to-morrow; But she—her precious babe is not !
And what remains but sorrow ?
Bereaved one! I may not chide
Thy tears and bitter sobbing-
And still that bosom's throbbing :
To whom no hope is given-
Thy infant rests in heaven.
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,
And instant help supplied :
With prompt, obedient feet;
The bitter waters sweet.
Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,
And prompt obedience, thine:
Thy faith in God to prove,
Its bitterness remove.
“WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?”
What is that, Mother ? — The lark, my child ! -
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
What is that, Mother ?—The dove, my son !
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
What is that, Mother ?—The eagle, boy !-
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
What is that, Mother ?—The swan, my love ! -
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,