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Creator only is permanent? Or shall we not rather lay aside every weight, and every sin which doth most easily beset us, and think ourselves henceforth as wayfaring persons only, who have no abiding inheritance but in the hope of a better world, and to whom even that world would be worse than hopeless if it were not for Him who died for man's redemption, and for the interest that we have obtained in His mercies?



Ye say they all have passed away,

That noble race and brave ;
That their light canoes have vanished

From off the crested wave;
That 'mid the forests where they roamed,

There rings no hunter's shout;
But their names are on your waters,

Ye may not wash them out.
They're where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake

The echo of the world.
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,

That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves

Before the autumn gale ;
But their memory liveth on your hills,

Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak

Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it

Upon her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;
Connecticut has wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves ;
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse

Through all her ancient caves.
Wachusetts hides its lingering voice

Within his rocky heart;

And Alleghany graves its tone

Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,

Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument,

Though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call these red-browed brethren

The insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid

The regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their fathers' land,

Ye break of faith the seal ;
But can ye from the court of Heaven

Exclude their last appeal ?
Ye see their unresisting tribes,

With toilsome step and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,

A caravan of woe;
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?

His sleepless vision dim ?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry

From that far land to Him ?

129.—THE BOYS.

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys ?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! we're twenty to-night!
We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,—young jackanapes !-show him the door!

Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please ;
Where snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,—you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old;
That boy we call “Doctor," and this we call “Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction, -of course it's all fudge.
That fellow's the “Speaker,” the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our “Member of Congress,” we say when we chaff;
There's the “Reverend”—what's his name?-_don't make me


That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the Royal Society thought it was true !
So they chose him right in,-

,-a good joke it was too !
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him “The Justice," but now he's the "

“Squire." And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,Just read on his medal, “My country," "of thee!" You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! Yes, we're boys,-always playing with tongue or with pen; And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men ? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys !

Harvard Class of 1829.



Upon the hills the wind is sharp and cold,
The sweet young grasses wither on the wold,
And we, O Lord! have wandered from thy fold;

But evening brings us home.
Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox
Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks;

But evening brings us home.
The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet
Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat
Their pitiful complaints,-0, rest is sweet

When evening brings us home!
We have been wounded by the hunter's darts;
Our eyes are very heavy, and our hearts
Search for Thy coming ;—when the light departs

At evening, bring us home.

The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star
Rises to guide us; we have wandered far ;-
Without Thy lamp we know not where we are,

At evening, bring us home.
The clouds are round us, and the snow-drifts thicken.
O, thou dear Shepherd! leave us not to sicken
In the waste t; our tardy footsteps quicken;

At evening, bring us home.


RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford. I set out one morning to walk ; I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon; after a slight breakfast at my inn—where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again—I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my

bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood ; I

; felt like a child, I prayed like one ; it seemed as though old times were to return again : I looked round involuntarily, ex. pecting to see some face I knew ; but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke on a fine sum mer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber; they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold : I touched the keys— I played old Scottish tunes which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music, blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful: I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood that stands at the back of the house ; we called it the Wilderness. A well known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place—it was thine, Ben Moxam- the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature ! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles without a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good natured face. But there is one

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thing for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam—that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees: I remember them sweeping the ground. In this Wilderness I found myself, after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood: the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood pigeon ; all was as I had left it. My heart softened at the sight; it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades.

My parents were both dead; I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where He had laid them. I paced round the Wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence in which I had wandered in those shades. Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to be molded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father, and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet, for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground.

IN THE CHURCHYARD. I continued in the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralizing on them with that kind of levity which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy. I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said jestingly, Where be all the bad people buried ? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children, what cemeteries are appointed for these ? do they not sleep in consecrated ground ? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their lifetime, discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it.

I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other end of the churchyard : it was a company of children, who were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a grave-stone. He seemed to be asking them ques. tions, probably about their learning; and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up his knees to kiss him.

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