ROBERT POLLOK.-GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, Great fountain-head of evil; highest source He had might be esteemed his own, and praised TRUE HAPPINESS. True happiness had no localities, HOLY LOVE. FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME," BOOK V. 517 Hail, holy love! thou word that sums all bliss! A MOONLIGHT EVENING. It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood; Its Maker: now and then the aged leaf Ecorge Washington Doane. AMERICAN. Born in Trenton, N. J., in 1799, Doane studied for the Episcopal Church, and was consecrated bishop of the diocese of his native State in 1832. He published a collection of poetical pieces in 1824, and was the author of various theological treatises. He died April 27, 1859. FOREVER THINE. Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide; Forever mine, where'er our lot be cast; Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside, Shall leave us love-till life itself be past. The world may wrong us, we will brave its hate; False friends may change, and falser hopes decline; Though bowed by cankering cares, we'll smile at Fate, Since thou art mine, beloved, and I am thine! Forever thine, when circling years have spread Time's snowy blossoms o'er thy placid brow; When youth's rich glow, its "purple light," is fled, And lilies bloom where roses flourish now;— Say, shall I love the fading beauty less John Abraham Herand. An English poet and miscellaneous writer (born 1799), Heraud has been a diligent, if not a successful, cultivator of the poetic art. He has written tragedies, lyrics, and narrative poems: "The Legend of St. Loy" (1821); “The Descent into Hell, and other Poems" (1830); "Judgment of the Flood: a Poem" (1834); "The War of Ideas (1871). It was his fortune to be snubbed by the critics, and not always unjustly. On his asking Douglas Jerrold whether he had ever seen his "Descent into Hell," the reply was, "No, but I would like to see it." Heraud was a man of genius, though his writings show much misplaced power and abortive striving. Chambers says of him, that "he was in poetry what Martin was in art, a worshipper of the vast, the remote, and the terrible." His "Descent" and "Judgment" are chiefly remarkable as psychological curiosities. THE EMIGRANT'S HOME. Prepare thee, soul, to quit this spot, Where life is sorrow, doubt, and pain: Whose spring - tide radiance has been wholly There is a land where these are not, mine? No,-come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll bless, Forever thine, at evening's dewy hour, When gentle hearts to tenderest thoughts incline; When balmiest odors from each closing flower Are breathing round me,-thine, forever thine! Forever thine! 'mid Fashion's heartless throng; In courtly bowers; at Folly's gilded shrine;Smiles on my cheek, light words upon my tongue, My deep heart still is thine,-forever thine! Forever thine, amid the boisterous crowd, I would not, sweet, profane that silvery sound,-The depths of love could such rude hearts divine? A land where Peace and Plenty reign. And, after all, is Earth thy home? Thy place of exile, rather, where Thou wert conveyed, ere thought could come, To make thy young remembrance clear. Oh there in thee are traces still, Yon azure depth thou yet shalt sail, And, lark-like, sing at heaven's gate; The bark that shall through air prevail, Even now thy pleasure doth await. The Ship of Souls will thrid the space "Twixt earth and heaven with sudden flight: Dread not the darkness to embrace, That leads thee to the Land of Light! William Kennedy. Strew with pale flowerets, when pensive moons His grassy covering, Kennedy (1799-1849) was a native of Paisley, Scotland. Not as a record he lacketh a stone! LINES He re WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY FRIEND, Place we a stone at his head and his feet; Ever most lovingly, Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet. Harm not the thorn which grows at his head; To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead. Dearer to him than the deep minster-bell, Who, for the early day, Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, Flow from their spring in the soul's silent caves. Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, A THOUGHT. Oh that I were the great soul of a world! By the glad hand of Omnipotence hurled Reflecting the marvellous beauty of heaven, To endure when the orbs shall wax dim that are Old Time to destroy! Oh that I were this magnificent spirit! The measureless bliss they were sure to inherit, With elements infinite fitted for taking Robert Comfort Sands. AMERICAN. Sands (1799-1832) was a native of the city of New York, and a graduate of Columbia College, of the class of 1815. One of his college companions, two years his senior, was James Wallis Eastburn, who was also a poet, and wrote, in conjunction with Sands, the poem of "Yamoyden," founded on the history of Philip, the Pequod chieftain. Eastburn took orders in the Episcopal Church, and died in 1819, in his twenty-second year. The best part of "Yamoyden" is the "Proem," written by Sands, and containing some graceful and pathetic stanzas in reference to Eastburn, one of which we subjoin: "Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, Sands was a lawyer, but the attractions of literature drew him away from his profession, and he became an associate editor of the Commercial Advertiser. He ventured on several literary projects, edited magazines, and wrote a "Life of John Paul Jones." He did not live to fulfil the promise which his early compositions gave. He died unmarried, having always lived at home in his father's house. His "Writings in Prose and Verse, with a Memoir of the Author," in two volumes, were published by the Messrs. Harper in 1834. THE DEAD OF 1832. O Time and Death! with certain pace, Though still unequal, hurrying on, O'erturning in your awful race The cot, the palace, and the throne, Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar Beyond the old and solemn deeps, In crowds the good and mighty go, Dread Ministers of God! sometimes Ye smite at once, to do His will,— In all earth's ocean-severed climes,Those whose renown ye cannot kill! When all the brightest stars that burn At once are banished from their spheres, Men sadly ask, When shall return Such lustre to the coming years? For where is he'—who lived so longWho raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost? Where he who backward to the birth 1 Goethe and his "Faust." 2 Cuvier. 7 Charles Carroll. |