1 sometimes come to this quiet place, To breathe the air that ruffles thy face, And gaze upon thee in silent dream; For, in thy lonely and lovely stream, An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.-When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-
Comes a still voice-yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor could'st thou wish
Couch more magnificent: Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green—and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe, are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet, the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou shalt fall
Unnotic'd by the living-and no friend
Take note of thy departure! All that breathe
Will share thy destiny: the gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on,
and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee; as the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slaye at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
THE WARS OF KING PHILIP :'
REVEREND JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN, A.M.
ONE principal cause of the incorrectness of style, and want of polished taste which the American' poets display, may doubtless be discovered in the very early age at which they are accustomed to present their publications to the world. If Pope's juvenile Tragedy had escaped the flames, it would probably have given but few indications of those splendid powers, which in their full maturity produced the "Essay on Man." The early efforts of Milton's Muse, according to one of our great critics, "raise no great expectations," and we have
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