THE POWER OF MUSIC.*

HEAR yon poetic pilgrim† of the west
Chant music's praise, and to her power attest;
Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods,
Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods,
And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws;
Who hangs the canvass where ATALA glows,
On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded,
That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded:
Who, for the son of OUTALISSI, twines
Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines
A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss
That Time already sprinkles on the cross
Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps,
And Superstition o'er her victim weeps;
Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds,
Among Scioto's monumental mounds;

Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears
A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years,
To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw
O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below,
By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes,
Lost in those towering tombs of other times;
For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame,
No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame.
With sacred lore this traveller beguiles
His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles.
Whether he kneels in venerable groves,

Or through the wide and green savanna roves,
His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears
The faintest breath of Idumea's airs.

Now he recalls the lamentable wail

That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale,
When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier,
A note for SATAN's and for HEROD's ear.
Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood,
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood,
The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes
The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes
Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd,
And round the temples where his fathers pray'd.
How fondly then, from all but hope exiled,
To Zion's wo recurs religion's child!
He sees the tear of JUDAH's captive daughters
Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters;
While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung,
Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung,
Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'er the billow,
And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow.

And could not music soothe the captive's wo? But should that harp be strung for JUDAH's foe? While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream,

Balanced between a revery and a dream,
Backward he springs; and through his bounding
heart

The cold and curdling poison seems to dart.
For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake,
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake,
Just in the act, with greenly venom'd fangs,
To strike the foot that heedless o'er him hangs.

Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thickens on his gums;
His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry;
A spark of hell lies burning on his eye:
While, like a vapour o'er his writhing rings.
Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings.
Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,
From his soft flute throws music's air around,
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground.
See! as the plaintive melody is flung,
The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue;
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold;
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;

His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye;
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.
Slowly the charm retires: with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides;
While music throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound.

OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM.

STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forgot that thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,-that noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,

In the greatness of thy fame.
Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither

On the spot where thou shalt rest; "Tis in love we bear thee thither,

To thy mourning mother's breast. For the stores of science brought us, For the charm thy goodness gave To the lessons thou hast taught us,

Can we give thee but a grave?

Nature's priest, how pure and fervent

Was thy worship at her shrine! Friend of man, of God the servant, Advocate of truths divine,Taught and charm'd as by no other We have been, and hoped to be; But, while waiting round thee, brother, For thy light, 't is dark with thee.

Dark with thee?-No; thy Creator,

All whose creatures and whose laws Thou didst love, shall give thee greater

Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. To thy God, thy godlike spirit

Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,-we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,--but we must.

THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.*

THOU, who on the whirlwind ridest,
At whose word the thunder roars,
Who, in majesty, presidest

O'er the oceans and their shores;
From those shores, and from the oceans,
We, the children of the sea,
Come to pay thee our devotions,
And to give this house to thee.

When, for business on great waters,

We go down to sea in ships,
And our weeping wives and daughters
Hang, at parting, on our lips,
This, our Bethel, shall remind us,

That there's One who heareth prayer,
And that those we leave behind us
Are a faithful pastor's care.
Visions of our native highlands,

In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd,
Winds that come from spicy islands

When we long have lain becalm'd, Are not to our souls so pleasant

As the offerings we shall bring Hither, to the Omnipresent,

For the shadow of his wing.

When in port, each day that's holy,

To this house we'll press in throngs; When at sea, with spirit lowly,

We'll repeat its sacred songs. Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, Lose its flag behind the seas; Homeward bound, we'll greet with gladness Its first floating on the breeze. Homeward bound!-with deep emotion, We remember, Lord, that life Is a voyage upon an ocean,

Heaved by many a tempest's strife. Be thy statutes so engraven

On our hearts and minds, that we, Anchoring in Death's quiet haven,

All may make our home with thee.

THE SPARKLING BOWL.

THOU sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl! Though lips of bards thy brim may press, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,

And song and dance thy power confess,
I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!

Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree,
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,
And, as from that, there comes from thee

The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die."
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;-
A snake is twisted round thy stem!

*Written for the dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, under the direction of the Boston Port Society, September fourth, 1833.

Thou liquid fire! like that which glow'd On Melita's surf-beaten shore, Thou'st been upon my guests bestow'd,

But thou shalt warm my house no more. For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls, Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls!

What, though of gold the goblet be,

Emboss'd with branches of the vine,
Beneath whose burnish'd leaves we sce

Such clusters as pour'd out the wine?
Among those leaves an adder hangs!
I fear him;-for I've felt his fangs.

The Hebrew, who the desert trod,
And felt the fiery serpent's bite,
Look'd up to that ordain'd of Gon,

And found that life was in the sight.
So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains.

Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells! Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip! Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells

Gush o'er your granite basin's lip! To you I look ;-your largess give, And I will drink of you, and live.

FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

DAY of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play

With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd,
On the heights where squadrons wheel'd,
When a tyrant's thunder peal'd

O'er the trembling seas.
Gon of armies! did thy "stars
In their courses" smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars

From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldiers' urn
Who for freedom died.

Gon of peace!-whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,

Now the storm is o'er ;-
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future WASHINGTONS
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there's war no more.

By the patriot's hallow'd rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,-
Never let our graves be press'd

By a despot's throne;
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,-let our heirs
Bow to thee alone.

MR. NORTON was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterward tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He

| resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman.

Mr. NORTON is author of "The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels," published, in an octavo volume, in 1837; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited rare scholarship and argumentative abilities. His poetical writings are not numerous.

O, STAY thy tears! for they are blest
Whose days are past; whose toil is done.
Here midnight care disturbs our rest;
Here sorrow dims the noonday sun.

For labouring Virtue's anxious toil,

For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh, For Faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, Heaven grants the recompense, to die. How blest are they whose transient years Pass like an evening meteor's flight; Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears; Whose course is short, unclouded, bright. How cheerless were our lengthen'd way, Did heaven's own light not break the gloom; Stream downward from eternal day,

And cast a glory round the tomb!

Then stay thy tears; the blest above

Have hail'd a spirit's heavenly birth; Sung a new song of joy and love,

And why should anguish reign on earth?

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT.

FAREWELL! before we meet again,
Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown,
That lie in distant years of pain,
I have to journey on alone;

To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel,
Perchance with joys thou canst not share;
And when we both were wont to kneel,

To breathe alone the silent prayer;

But ne'er a deeper pang to know,
Than when I watch'd thy slow decay,
Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow,
And felt at last each hope give way.

But who the destined hour may tell,
That bids the loosen'd spirit fly?
E'en now this pulse's feverish swell
May warn me of mortality.

But chance what may, thou wilt no more
With sense and wit my hours beguile,
Inform with learning's various lore,

Or charm with friendship's kindest smile Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, All speak of hopes forever fled,

All have some tale to tell of thee.

I shall not, should misfortune lower,
Should friends desert, and life decline,
I shall not know thy soothing power,
Nor hear thee say, "My heart is thine."
If thou hadst lived, thy well-earn'd fame
Had bade my fading prospect bloom,
Had cast its lustre o'er my name,

And stood the guardian of my tomb.

Servant of Gon! thy ardent mind,

With lengthening years improving still, Striving, untired, to serve mankind, Had thus perform'd thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given;

"T was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to the blow;

With patient smile and steady eye,

To meet each pang that sickness gave, And see with lingering step draw nigh

The form that pointed to the grave.

Servant of GoD! thou art not there;
Thy race of virtue is not run;
What blooms on earth of good anu fair,

Will ripen in another sun.

Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow

With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears?

Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return
To when in summer's moonlight walk,
Of all that now is thine to learn,

We framed no light nor fruitless talk.

We spake of knowledge, such as soars
From world to world with ceaseless flight;
And love, that follows and adores,

As nature spreads before her sight.

How vivid still past scenes appear!

I feel as though all were not o'er;
As though 't were strange I cannot hear
Thy voice of friendship yet once more.
But I shall hear it; in that day

Whose setting sun I may not view,
When earthly voices die away,

Thine will at last be heard anew.

We meet again; a little while,

And where thou art I too shall be. And then, with what an angel smile Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me!

HYMN.

Mr Gon, I thank thee! may no thought E'er deem thy chastisements severe; But may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;

The sun shines bright, and man is gay; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom That darkens o'er his little day.

Full many a throb of grief and pain

Thy frail and erring child must know; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow.

Thy various messengers employ;

Thy purposes of love fulfil; And, mid the wreck of human joy, May kneeling faith adore thy will!

FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way
Be rough, like that thy SAVIOUR trod;
Though cold and stormy lower the day,
This path of suffering leads to God.

Nay, sink not; though from every limb
Are starting drops of toil and pain;
Thou dost but share the lot of Him
With whom his followers are to reign.

Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone,
Must bear the sorrows that assail;
Look upward to the eternal throne,
And know a Friend who cannot fail.

Bear firmly; yet a few more days,

And thy hard trial will be past;
Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze,
Thy feet will rest on heaven at last.

Christian! thy Friend, thy Master pray'd,
When dread and anguish shook his frame;
Then met his sufferings undismay'd;
Wilt thou not strive to do the same?

O! think'st thou that his Father's love

Shone round him then with fainter rays Than now, when, throned all height above, Unceasing voices hymn his praise?

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

ANOTHER year! another year!

The unceasing rush of time sweeps on; Whelm'd in its surges, disappear

Man's hopes and fears, forever gone!

O, no! forbear that idle tale!

The hour demands another strain, Demands high thoughts that cannot quail, And strength to conquer and retain.

"T is midnight-from the dark-blue sky,

The stars, which now look down on earth, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,

And given to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall,

And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, The dwellers on this alter'd ball

May still behold them glorious there.

Shine on! shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light!
A last eclipse o'er you may spread,
To me, to me, there comes no night.

O! what concerns it him, whose way Lies upward to the immortal dead, That a few hairs are turning gray,

Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years! but teach me how to bear,

To feel and act with strength and skill, To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,

How calm, how rich the twilight glow! The morning twilight of a sun

Which shines not here on things below.

But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain

To leave, or lose wife, children, friends! What then-shall we not meet again

Where parting comes not, sorrow ends?

The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust which woman gives, The smile of childhood,-it is there

That all we love in them still lives.

Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being! feel thy power,

Pursue thy bright and endless way.