Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long,-
And still its aching throb to bear;
How broken, that was once so strong!
How heavy, once so free from care!

10. No more for me life's fitful dream ;-
Bright vision, vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream;
My sinking soul a surer stay.
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left,-

My FAITH, my BIBLE, and my GOD.

HOYT.

REV. RALPH HOYT is a clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church in New York. He is a native of the city. After passing several years as a teacher, and a writer for the gazettes, he studied theology, and took orders in the church in 1842. He may have written much, but he has acknowledged little. "The Chant of Life and other Poems," appeared in 1844, and the second portion of the same, in 1845. These works are principally occupied with passages of personal sentiment and reflection. His pieces, entitled "Snow," "The World for Sale," "New," and "Old," have attracted considerable attention, and become popular. A simple, natural current of feeling runs through them: the versification grows out of the subject, and the whole clings to us as something written from the heart of the author. A new edition of his "Sketches of Life and Landscape" was published in 1858.

TH

V.

90. GLORY.

HE crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous mausole'um,' the sculptured marble, and the venerable cathedral, all bear witness to the instinctive desire within us to be remembered by coming generations. But how short-lived is the immortality which the works of our hands can confer! The noblest monuments of art that the world has ever seen are covered with the soil of twenty centuries. The works of the age of Pericles' lie at the foot of the Acrop'olis' in indiscriminate ruin. The plow

1 Mau`so lē' um, a magnificent gree of perfection that has not since tomb or monument. been equaled, and poetry reached the highest excellence. He died B. C. 429.

'Pericles, the greatest of Athenian statesmen, was born about 495 B. c. During his administration archi tecture and sculpture attained a de

"A crop' o lis, the citadel of Ath. ens, built on a rock, and accessible only on one side.

share turns up the marble which the hand of Phidias' had chis eled into beauty, and the Mussulman has folded his flock beneath the falling columns of the temple of Minerva.'

2. But even the works of our hands too frequently survive the memory of those who have created them. And were it otherwise, could we thus carry down to distant ages the recollection of our existence, it were surely childish to waste the energies of an immortal spirit in the effort to make it known to other times, that a being whose name was written with certain letters of the alphabet, once lived, and flourished, and died. Neither sculptured marble, nor stately column, can reveal to other ages the lineäments of the spirit; and these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts of a grateful posterity.

3. As the stranger stands beneath the dome of St. Paul's,' or treads, with religious awe, the silent aisles of Westminster Abbey, the sentiment, which is breathed from every object around him, is, the utter emptiness of sublunary' glory. The fine arts, obedient to private affection or public gratitude, have here embodied, in every form, the finest conceptions of which their age was capable. Each one of these monuments has been watered by the tears of the widow, the orphan, or the patriot.

4. But generations have passed away, and mourners and mourned have sunk together into forgetfulness. The aged crone, or the smooth-tongued beadle, as now he hurries you through aisles and chapel, utters, with measured cadence and unmeaning tone, for the thousandth time, the name and lineage of the once honored dead; and then gladly dismisses you, to repeat again his well-conned lesson to another group of idle passers-by.

5. Such, in its most august form, is all the immortality that matter can confer. It is by what we ourselves have done, and

1

'Phid'i as, a Greek sculptor, and the most celebrated of antiquity, was born at Athens about 490 B. C., and died 432 B. C.

'Minerva, called Athena by the Greeks, was usually regarded, in heathen mythology, as the goddess of wisdom, knowledge, and art.

'St. Paul's, a celebrated church in London, of very great size. It was begun about 1675, and finished by

Christopher Wren in 1718.

• Westminster Abbey, a church in Westminster, built by Edward the Confessor, in 1050. Henry III. made additions and rebuilt a part between 1220 and 1269. Many of the most distinguished statesmen, warriors, scholars, and artists of England He buried here.

' Sub' lu na ry, being under the moon; terrestrial; earthly.

not by what others have done for us, that we shall be remembered by after ages. It is by thought that has aroused my intellect from its slumbers, which has "given luster to virtue, and dignity to truth," or by those examples which have inflamed my soul with the love of goodness, and not by means of sculptured marble, that I hold communion with Shakspeare and Milton, with Johnson and Burke, with Howard' and Wilberforce.'

DR. WAYLAND.

DR. FRANCIS WAYLAND was born in the city of New York, March 11th, 1796, and in the seventeenth year of his age he was graduated at Union College, in Schenectady. After studying medicine for three years, and his admission to practice, he entered the Theological Seminary at Andover, which he left at the end of a year, to become a tutor in Union College. In 1821 he became pastor of the First Baptist Church in Boston, where he continued five years. He was elected to the presidency of Brown University, Providence, in 1826. His first publication was a sermon on the Moral Dignity of the Missionary Enterprise, delivered in Boston, in 1823, which had an extraordinary success, passing through many editions, in England and this country. Very many of his discourses, since that period, have been equally popular. He has also written numerous articles in the journals and quarterly reviews. His works on Moral Science, Political Economy, and Intellectual Philosophy, have deservedly met with great success. His very interesting "Life of the Missionary, Dr. Judson," appeared in 1853. This able thinker is equally popular as an orator and a writer. Clear, exact, and searching in his analysis, he penetrates to the very heart of his subject, and enunciates its ultimate principles in a style of transparent clearness, and classical purity and elegance, and not unfrequently rises to strains of impassioned eloquence. He died September 30th, 1865.

VI.

91. PASSING AWAY.

AS it the chime of a tiny bell,

WA

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,

1 John Howard, the celebrated Christian philanthropist, was born at Hackney, London, in 1726. With a view to the amelioration of prisoners, in 1777 he visited all the prisons in the United Kingdom; and in 1778, and the four following years, he inspected the principal public pris

ons of Europe. On a second tour of inquiry, he was seized with a malignant fever, of which he died, at Kherson, Russia, Jan. 20th, 1790.

2 William Wilberforce, a distinguished British statesman, author, and Christian philanthropist, was born in 1759. and died July 28th, 1833.

She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shōre ?—
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,

Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing' away! passing away!"

2 But, no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear:
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell

Striking the hours that fell on my ear,
As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time;
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung ;
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing ;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,'
And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

3. Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo! she had changed;—in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;

Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

4. While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,

Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

a

Passing, (pås' ing), Note 3, p. 22.

• Bouquet, (b0k).

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,

Was a little dimmed-as when evening steals

Upon noon's hot face :—yet one couldn't but love her;
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;

And she seemed in the same silver tone to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

5. While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily swung she on :

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,

Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept;
And still there came that silver tone
From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone,
(Let me never forget, to my dying day,
The tone or the burden of that lay)—

"PASSING AWAY! PASSING AWAY!"

PIERPONT.

REV. JOHN PIERPONT, author of the "Airs of Palestine," was born at Litch field, Connecticut, April 6th, 1785. He entered Yale College when fifteen years old, graduated in 1804, and passed the four subsequent years as a private tutor in the family of Col. Wm. Allston, of South Carolina. He then returned home, studied law in the celebrated school of his native town, and was admitted to practice in 1812. About the same period he delivered his poem entitled "The Portrait," before the Washington Benevolent Society, of Newburyport, to which place he had removed. Impaired health, and the unsettled state of affairs produced by the war, induced him soon after to relinquish his profession. He bccame a merchant, first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore. The "Airs of Palestine," which he published in Baltimore, in 1816, was well received, and twice reprinted in the course of the following year. In 1819 he was ordained minister of the Hollis Street Unitarian Church, in Boston. He passed a portion of the years 1835-6 in Europe, and in 1840 published a choice edition of his poems. At different periods, he also published several very able discourses. In 1851 he delivered a poem of considerable length at the centennial celebration in Litchfield. He has written in almost every meter, and many of his poems are remarkably elevated, spirited, and melodious. He died suddenly at Medford, Mass., August 26th, 1866.