THE ORDINAL.

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, The pressure 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 dimm'd many an eye.

As then they on my vision rose,
The vaulted aisles I see,

And desk and cushion'd 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.

O Thou, who in thy holy place

Hast set thine orders three,

Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace
To win a good degree;

That so, replenish'd from above,

And in my office tried,

Thou mayst be honoured, and in love
Thy church be edified!

CHRISTMAS EVE.

THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallow'd fane

A soft, reviving odour 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.

THE DEATH OF STEPHEN.

WITH awful dread his murderers shook, As, radiant and serene,

The lustre of his dying look

Was like an angel's seen; Or MOSES' face of paly light,

When down the mount he trod, All glowing from the glorious sight And presence of his GoD.

To us, with all his constancy,

Be his rapt vision given,
To look above by faith, and see

Revealments bright of heaven.
And power to speak our triumphs out,
As our last hour draws near,
While neither clouds of fear nor doubt
Before our view appear.

THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING.

WE come not with a costly store,
O LORD, like them of old,
The masters of the starry lore,

From Ophir's shore of gold:
No weepings of the incense tree
Are with the gifts we bring,
No odorous myrrh of Araby
Blends with our offering.

But still our love would bring its best, A spirit keenly tried

By fierce affliction's fiery test,

And seven times purified:
The fragrant graces of the mind,
The virtues that delight

To give their perfume out, will find
Acceptance in thy sight.

THE Reverend WALTER COLTON is a native of Rutland, in Vermont. He was educated at Yale College, where he had a high reputation for classical learning; and on being graduated he entered the Theological Seminary at Andover, where he spent three years in the study of divinity. He was soon after appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Belles Lettres in the Military Academy at Middletown, in Connecticut; but the condition of his health making a sea-voyage desirable, he accepted a chaplain's commission in the navy, and joined the West India Squadron, in 1830. He was afterward transferred to the Mediterranean; and in the three years during which he was connected with this station, he travelled through Spain, Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor; visited Constantinople,

THE SAILOR.

A SAILOR ever loves to be in motion,

Roaming about, he scarce knows where or why; He looks upon the dim and shadowy ocean

As home, abhors the land; and e'en the sky, Boundless and beautiful, has naught to please, Except some clouds, which promise him a breeze. He is a child of mere impulse and passion,

Loving his friends, and generous to his foes,
And fickle as the most ephemeral fashion,

Save in the cut and colour of his clothes,
And in a set of phrases, which on land
The wisest head could never understand.
He thinks his dialect the very best

That ever flow'd from any human lip,
And whether in his prayers, or at a jest,

Uses the terms for managing a ship; And even in death would order up the helm, In hope to clear the "undiscover'd realm." He makes a friend where'er he meets a shore, One whom he cherishes with some affection; But leaving port, he thinks of her no more,

Unless it be, perchance, in some reflection Upon his wicked ways, then, with a sigh, Resolves on reformation-ere he die.

In calms, he gazes at the sleeping sea,

Or seeks his lines, and sets himself to angling, Or takes to politics, and, being free

Of facts and full of feeling, falls to wrangling: Then recollects a distant eye and lip, And rues the day on which he saw a ship: Then looks up to the sky to watch each cloud, As it displays its faint and fleeting form; Then o'er the calm begins to mutter loud, And swears he would exchange it for a storm, Tornado, any thing-to put a close To this most dead, monotonous repose.

and made his way to Paris and London. The results of his adventures he has partially given to the public in his volumes entitled "Ship and Shore," and "Athens and Constantinople." Soon after the publication of these works he was appointed Historiographer to the South Sea Surveying and Exploring expedition; but the ultimate reduction of the force designed for the Pacific squadron, and the resignation of his associates, induced him to forego the advantages of this office, and he has since been attached to the naval station at Philadelphia.

Besides the above works, Mr. COLTON has written much in the literary magazines; and he is now editor of the "North American," one of the most influential daily gazettes in the United States.

An order given, and he obeys, of course,
Though 't were to run his ship upon the rocks-
Capture a squadron with a boat's-crew force-

Or batter down the massive granite blocks
Of some huge fortress with a swivel, pike,
Pistol, aught that will throw a ball, or strike.
He never shrinks, whatever may betide;

His weapon may be shiver'd in his hand, His last companion shot down at his side,

Still he maintains his firm and desperate standBleeding and battling-with his colours fast As nail can bind them to his shatter'd mast. Such men fall not unmourn'd-their winding-sheet May be the ocean's deep, unresting wave; Yet o'er their grave will wandering winds repeat The dirge of millions for the fallen brave; While each high deed survives in holier trust Than those consigned to mound or marble bust. I love the sailor-his eventful life

His generous spirit-his contempt of dangerHis firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife;

And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger, God grant he make that port, when life is o'er, Where storms are hush'd, and billows break no more.

TO MY PIPE.

THY quiet spirit lulls the labouring brain,

Lures back to thought the flights of vacant mirth; Consoles the mourner, soothes the couch of pain, And breathes contentment round the humble

hearth;

While savage warriors, soften'd by thy breath, Unbind the captive hate had doom'd to death. Thy vapour bathes the Caffre's sooty walls, And fills the mighty czar's imperial dome; Rolls through Byzantine's oriental halls,

And floats around the Arab's tented home;

Melts o'er the anchorite's repentant meal,
And shades the lightning of the Tartar's steel.
And yet the life that brought thine own to light,
Went out in dungeon-gloom and guiltless wo!
And he, who first on Europe's startled sight
Display'd thee, fell beneath the headsman's blow!
But thou, their foster-child, with filial grief,
Their memory keep'st in thy undying leaf.
The great leviathan, whose nostril heaves

The foaming brine in torrents to the sky,
The sailor-boy's descending steel bereaves

Of all that in that mountain mass could die : But kings may war with thee,-thy subtle life Can little reck the issue of the strife.

The mighty mound that guards ACHILLES' dust; The marble strength of AGAMEMNON's tomb; The pyramid of CHEOPS' dying trust

Now only give to doubt a deeper gloom : But thy memorial unborn men shall find, Immortal, mid the triumphs of the mind.

The towers of Thebes, which millions toil'd to rear, In scatter'd ruins own the earthquake's shock; The fleets of Rome, that fill'd the isles with fear,

The storm hath left in fragments on the rock: But thrones may crumble, empires fade away; Their frailties reach not thee, thou thing of clay!

The vast volcano, whose eruptive fires

O'er flaming fields and cinder'd cities fell; When once its central, nursing flame expires, Stands empty, like a deep, extinguish'd hell! But thy warm life extinct, a kindling coal Can light again thy vapour-heaving bowl. Thy purple wreaths, in soaring ringlets curl'd,

Float on the breeze to join that pall of cloud,
'Neath whose sepulchral gloom, this restless world
Will lie at last, in its unheaving shroud:
Thou, too, wilt then that last sad change reveal,
Which follows fast when death hath set his seal.

Away, poor trifle! what with thee is death?
Only the spark extinct, that lit thy bowl;
The fragrance fled, that mingled with thy breath;
With man,
it is a summons for his soul

To leave her work, for that awarding state,
Where boundless bliss, or endless woes await.

BYRON.

He might have soar'd, a miracle of mind,
Above the doubts that dim our mental sphere,
And pour'd from thence, as music on the wind,
Those prophet tones, which men had turn'd to
As if an angel's harp had sung of bliss, [hear,
In some bright world beyond the tears of this.

But he betray'd his trust, and lent his gift
Of glorious faculties to blight and mar

The moral universe, and set adrift

The anchor'd hopes of millions,-thus the star Of his eventful destiny became

A wild and wandering of fearful flame.

That orb hath set, yet still its lurid light
Flashes above the broad horizon's verge,
As if some comet, plunging from its height,
Should pause upon the ocean's boiling surge,
And in defiance of its darksome doom,
Light for itself a fierce volcanic tomb.

THE LAST WRECK.

THIS mighty globe, with all its stretching sail
And streamers set, is speeding wildly fast
To that dim coast, where thunder, cloud and gale
Will rend the shrouds, lay low the lofty mast,
And bear her down, mid night and howling wave,
With wail and shriek, to her engulfing grave.
No Pharos then will cast its cheering ray

To show the mariner the welcome shore;
No friendly star come forth, as dying day

Darkens above the breakers' ceaseless roar; No minute-gun through calcined cliff or steep, Startle the wrecker from his savage sleep. Monarchs will seize the helm to stay its roll,

Then fall upon their trembling knees in prayer; Hoar voyagers scan again the chart's dim scroll, And drop its idle page in mute despair; While pallid myriads, on the plunging deck, Grapple with death, in that tremendous wreck. And down 't will sink amid the tide of time,

And leave no relics on the closing wave, Except the records of its grief and crime;

The gentle heaven will weep above its grave, And universal nature softly rear

A dewy urn to this departed sphere.

THE CATHARA.

BUT yesterday thine eyes were bright
As rays that fringe the early cloud;
Now closed to life, to love, and light,
Wrapp'd in the winding-sheet and shroud;
And darkly o'er thee broods the pall,

While faint and low thy dirge is sung;
And warm and fast around thee fall
Tears of the beautiful and young.

No more, sweet one! on thee, no more
Will break the day-dawn fresh and fair;
Nor evening's purple twilight pour
Its softness round thy raven hair:
No more beneath thy magic hand

Will wake the lyre's responsive lay;
Or round its warmth the wreath expand,
To crown a sister's natal day.

Yet as the sweet surviving vine,

Around the bough that buds no more,
Will still its tender leaves entwine,
And bloom as freshly as before;
So fond affection still will shed
The light on thee it used to wear,
And plant its roses round thy bed,
To breathe in fragrant beauty there.

MY FIRST LOVE, AND MY LAST.

CATHARA, when the many silent tears

Of beauty, bending o'er thy dying bed,
Bespoke the change familiar to our fears,

I could not think thy spirit yet had fled—
So like to life the slumber death had cast
On thy sweet face, my first love and my last.
I watch'd to see those lids their light unfold,
For still thy forehead rose serene and fair,
As when those raven ringlets richly roll'd

O'er life, which dwelt in thought and beauty

there:

Thy cheek the while was rosy with the theme
That flush'd along the spirit's mystic dream.
Thy lips were circled with that silent smile

Which oft around their dewy freshness woke, When some more happy thought or harmless wile Upon thy warm and wandering fancy broke: For thou wert Nature's child, and took the tone Of every pulse, as if it were thine own.

I watch'd, and still believed that thou wouldst wake, When others came to place thee in the shroud: I thought to see this seeming slumber break,

As I have seen a light, transparent cloud Disperse, which o'er a star's sweet face had thrown A shadow like to that which veil'd thine own. But, no: there was no token, look, or breath: The tears of those around, the tolling bell And hearse told us at last that this was death! I know not if I breathed a last farewell; But since that day my sweetest hours have pass'd In thought of thee, my first love and my last.

UNREQUITED LOVE, AND SUICIDE.

No tears regret may shed for thee
Can now avail to save;
No smiles that love may now decree
Can light thy lowly grave;

All dark the deed that drain'd the bowl,
And freed from earthly ill the soul,

Uncall'd by him who gave;
But blighted hopes and passion plead,
And erring pity veils the deed.

But they, who never loved as thou,
Will doubt in their dismay,

If reason on thy burning brow

Pour'd its diviner ray:
They only know that feeble flame,

Which most may quench, and all may tame,
In their less sensate clay;
And deem the heart may calmly bear
The frenzied grief of love's despair.
What now to thee that envied hearth,
That sweet surviving thrall;
Alike the voice of wail or mirth,

Where death's dim shadows fall;

The all which love could once repay,
With thy warm heart hath pass'd away,
Nor may it now recall

More than a faint and fitful beam,
To light thee back in memory's dream.
What pass'd with thy departing breath,
In shape of hurried prayer,
Unknown to those who watch'd till death
Had left its stillness there?

It may have been a pleading tone,
That wing'd its way to Mercy's throne,
Unquench'd by guilt's despair-
And won, through its availing tears,
The meed of long repentant years.

THE PARTING.

BLEST be the sweet, seraphic hour,
That first betray'd to me
The unadorn'd and priceless dower
Which Heaven conferr'd in thee!
I would not, one relenting day,

This peerless gift resign
For every gem that sheds its ray
In rich Golconda's mine.

For thou hast been to me, what ne'er
In ruby's ray hath shone,
A sister from a purer sphere

To lure me from my own;
And I have watch'd the rising light

Of each inspiring word,
As they who track the farewell flight
Of some ascending bird.

Through every night of doubt and ill,
And every darksome day,

A sunny smile was round thee still,
To chase their gloom away;

And, when the world in rudeness spoke,
Thy voice was heard above

The tones that from their harsh lips broke,
In its unchanging love.

But now the springing breeze is near,
That bears me far from thee;

I go, with no kind voice to cheer,

A pilgrim o'er the sea;

A pilgrim through the surging sweep
Of every wilder wave,

And rudely rushing o'er the sleep

Of many a pilgrim's grave;
But wheresoe'er my path may lay,
Through varied sea and zone,
My inmost heart shall still betray

The image of thine own.

And till my latest hour shall come,

By shore, or mount, or sea, I'll think of thy sweet hearth and home, And breathe a prayer for thee.

He

THE author of "Greyslaer,” « Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," etc., is a brother of the Honourable OGDEN HOFFMAN, and a son of the late eminent lawyer of the same name.* is the child of a second marriage. His maternal grandfather was JOHN FENNO, of Philadelphia, one of the ablest political writers of the old Federal party, during the administration of WASHINGTON. The family, which is a numerous one in the state of New York, planted themselves, at an early day, in the valley of the Hudson, as appears from the Dutch records of PETER STUYVESANT'S storied reign.

Mr. HOFFMAN was born in New York, in the year 1806. He was sent to a Latin grammarschool in that city, when six years old, from which, at the age of nine, he was transferred to the Poughkeepsie academy, a seminary upon the Hudson, about eighty miles from New York, which at that time enjoyed great reputation. The harsh treatment he received here induced him to run away, and his father, finding that he had not improved under a course of severity, did not insist upon his return, but placed him under the care of an accomplished Scottish gentleman in one of the rural villages of New Jersey. During a visit home from this place, and when about twelve years of age, he met with an injury which involved the necessity of the immediate amputation of the right leg, above the knee. The painful circumstances are minutely detailed in the New York 64 Evening Post," of the twenty-fifth of October, 1817, from which it appears, that while, with other lads, attempting the dangerous feat of leaping aboard a steamer as she passed a pier, under full way, he was caught between the vessel and the wharf. The steamer swept by, and left him clinging by his hands to the pier, crushed in a manner too frightful for description. This deprivation, instead of acting as a disqualification for the manly sports of youth, and thus turning the subject of it into a retired student, seems rather to have given young HOFFMAN an especial ambition to excel in swimming, riding, etc., to the still further neglect of perhaps more useful acquire

ments.

When fifteen years old, he entered Columbia College, and here, as at preparatory schools, was noted rather for success in gymnastic exercises

Judge HOFFMAN was, in early life, one of the most distinguished advocates at the American bar. He won his first cause in New Jersey at the age of seventeen; the illness of counsel or the indulgence of the court giving him the opportunity to speak. At twenty-one he succeeded his father as representative, from New York, in the state legislature. At twenty-six he filled the office of attorney-general; and thenceforth the still youthful pleader was often the successful competitor of HAMILTON, BURR, PINKNEY, and other professional giants, for the highest honours of the legal forum.

than in those of a more intellectual character. His reputation, judging from his low position in his class, contrasted with the honours that were awarded him by the college-societies at their anniversary exhibitions, was greater with the students than with the faculty, though the honorary degree of Master of Arts, conferred upon him under peculiarly gratifying circumstances, after leaving the institution in his third or junior year, without having graduated, clearly implies that he was still a favourite with his alma mater.*

Immediately after leaving college-being then eighteen years old--he commenced the study of the law with the Honourable HARMANUS BLEECKER, of Albany, now Charge d'Affaires of the United States at the Hague. When twenty-one, he was admitted to the bar, and in the succeeding three years he practised in the courts of the city of New York. During this period he wrote anonymously for the New York American--having made his first essay as a writer for the gazettes while in Albany--and I believe finally became associated with Mr. CHARLES KING in the editorship of that paper. Certainly he gave up the legal profession, for the successful prosecution of which he appears to have been unfitted by his love of books, society, and the rod and gun. His feelings at this period are described in some rhymes, entitled Forest Musings," from which the following stanzas are quoted, to show the fine relish for forest-life and scenery which has thrown a peculiar charm around every production from his pen :-

The hunt is up

The merry woodland shout,
That rung these echoing glades about
An hour agone,

Hath swept beyond the eastern hills,
Where, pale and lone,

The moon her mystic circle fills;

A while across the setting sun's broad disc The dusky larch,

As if to pierce the blue o'erhanging arch, Lifts its tall obelisk.

And now from thicket dark,

Where, by the mist-wreathed river, The fire-fly's spark

Will fitful quiver,

And bubbles round the lily's cup
From lurking trout come coursing up,
The doe hath led her fawn to drink;
While, scared by step so near,
Uprising from the sedgy brink
The lonely bittern's cry will sink
Upon the startled ear.

And thus upon my dreaming youth,
When boyhood's gambols pleased no more,
And young Romance, in guise of Truth,
Usurp'd the heart all theirs before;

At the first semi-centennial anniversary of the incorporation of Columbia College, the honorary degree Master of Arts was conferred upon FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, and CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.