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WILLIAM CROSWELL. THĘ Rev. William Croswell, D. D., is a son of the Rev. Dr. Croswell, of New Haven, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in the summer of 1824. He was subsequently, for two years, associated with Dr. Doane, now Bishop of New Jersey, in the editorship of the “ Episcopal Watchman,” at Hartford, after which he removed to Boston, and then to Auburn, in the western part of the state of New York. He is now rector of church in New Haven. Bishop Doane, in a note to his edition of Keble's " Christian Year,” remarks that “ he has more unwritten poetry in him” than any man he knows. His published poems are characterized by an elegant fancy and a fine vein of religious sentiment.

THE SYNAGOGUE. " But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nev. ertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away."-St. Paul.

I saw them in their synagogue,

As in their ancient day,
And never from my memory

The scene will fade away,
For, dazzling on my vision, still

The latticed galleries shine
With Israel's loveliest daughters,

In their beauty half-divine !
It is the holy Sabbath eve, –

The solitary light
Sheds, mingled with the hues of day,

A lustre nothing bright;
On swarthy brow and piercing glance

It falls with saddening tinge,
And dimly gilds the Pharisee's

Phylacteries and fringe.
The two-leaved doors slide slow apart

Before the eastern screen,
As rise the Hebrew harmonies,

With chanted prayers between,

And mid the tissued vails disclosed,

Of many a gorgeous dye, Enveloped in their jewelled scarfs,

The sacred records lie.

Robed in his sacerdotal vest,

A silvery-headed man
With voice of solemn cadence o'er

The backward letters ran;
And often yet methinks I see

The glow and power that sate Upon his face, as forth he spread

The roll immaculate.

And fervently that hour I prayed,

That from the mighty scroll Its light, in burning characters,

Might break on every soul, That on their hardened hearts the veil

Might be no longer dark, But be forever rent in twain

Like that before the ark.

For yet the tenfold film shall fall,

0, Judah! from thy sight, And every eye be purged to read

Thy testimonies right, When thou, with all Messiah's signs

In Christ distinctly seen, Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name,

Invoke the Nazarene.

THE CLOUDS. “ Cloud land! Gorgeous land !"-COLERIDGB. I CANNOT look above and see

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly

In gold and purple pass,

And think not, Lord, how thou wast seen

On Israel's desert way,
Before them, in thy shadowy screen,

Pavilioned all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue

Which the Redeemer wore, When, ravished from his followers' view,

Aloft his flight he bore,
When lifted, as on mighty wing,

He curtained his ascent,
And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing

Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall

Of many colored dyes,
That high above, o'ermantling all,

Hangs midway down the skies--
Or borders of those sweeping folds

Which shall be all unfurled About the Saviour, when he holds

His judgment on the world?

For in like manner as he went,

My soul, hast thou forgot? Shall be his terrible descent,

When man expecteth not ! Strength, Son of man, against that hour,

Be to our spirits given, When thou shalt come again with power,

Upon the clouds of heaven!

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Alas for me if I forget

The memory of that day
Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet

E'en sleep can take away!

In dreams I still renew the rites

Whose strong but mystic chain The spirit to its God unites,

And none can part again. How oft the bishop's form I see,

And hear that thrilling tone Demanding with authority

The heart for God alone!
Again I kneel as then I knelt,

While he above me stands,
And seem to feel, as then I felt,

of his hands. Again the priests in meet array,

As my weak spirit fails,
Beside me bend them down to pray

Before the chancel-rails ;
As then, the sacramental host

Of God's elect are by, When

many a voice its utterance lost,

And tears dimmed many an eye. As then they on my vision rose,

The vaulted aisles I see, And desk and cushioned book

repose In solemn sanctity, The mitre o'er the marble niche,

The broken crook and key,
That from a bishop's tomb shone rich

With polished tracery;
The hangings, the baptismal font,

All, all, save me unchanged,
The holy table, as was wont,

With decency arranged ;
The linen cloth, the plate, the cup,

Beneath their covering shine,
Ere priestly hands are lifted up

To bless the bread and wine.

The solemn ceremonial past,

And I am set apart
To serve the Lord, from first to last,

With undivided heart;
And I have sworn, with pledges dire,

Which God and man have heard,
To speak the holy truth entire,

In action and in word.

0 Thou, who in thy holy place

Hast set thine orders three,
Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace

To win a good degree;
That so, replenished from above,

And in my office tried,
Thou mayst be honored, and in love

Thy church be edified !

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The thickly-woven boughs they wreathe

Through every hallowed fane
A soft, reviving odor breathe

Of summer's gentle reign;
And rich the ray of mild green light

Which, like an emerald's glow,
Comes struggling through the latticed height

Upon the crowds below.

O, let the streams of solemn thought

Which in those temples rise,
From deeper sources spring than aught

Dependent on the skies :
Then, though the summer's pride departs.

And winter's withering chill
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts

Shall be unchanging still.

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