No tears were shed-no mutter'd prayer
Stole upward through the stilly air ;
No flowers were strown—the mountain stream
Murmur'd his only requiem!

But when his native hills are bright
In the calm smile of summer's light;
And all the lowland woods are green,
By that lone grave sweet flowers are seen ;
And travellers pause upon their way,
To list the birds' sad minstrelsy
From that old larch, and breathe a prayer,
For him who rests in silence there.

WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY,

A NATIVE of Exeter, New Hampshire, was graduated at Cambridge, in 1816. He is now settled in the ministry at Springfield, in Massachusetts. His poems, which have appeared anonymously in various periodicals, show superior talent and good taste.

God of the earth's extended plains !

The dark green fields contented lie :
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon’d up their thundering bands ;
Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,
Or hurry trembling, o'er the seas,

28

VOL. II.

Till calm'd by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, “Depart in peace.'

God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,

When side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air !

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry ternpests blow ; All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry

Breathes forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's wings; Each brilliant star, that sparkles through

Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives

The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's 'unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! thy hour must come,

And nature's self to dust return! Her crumbling altars must decay!

Her incense fires shall cease to burn! But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow;

For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

And this is death! how cold and still, And yet how lovely it appears!

Too cold to let the gazer smile, But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright, The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;

And yet it is with strange delight I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow, Half shaded by the silken hair,

That never look'd so fair as now, When life and health were laughing there

I wonder not that grief should swell So wildly upward in the breast,

And that strong passion once rebel That need not, cannot be suppress’d.

I wonder not that parents' eyes In gazing thus grow cold and dim,

That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn;

The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,

And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

Those eyes

And yet why mourn? that deep repose Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose,

shall never weep again. For think not that the blushing flower Shall wither in the church-yard sod,

’T was made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze—and swift and far The clouds of death in sorrow fly,

I see thee like a new-born star.
Move up thy pathway in the sky:

The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine ;

For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,

And parents calmly bend to see
The mournfuł beauty of the dead;

Thrice happy—that their infant bears
To heaven no darkeniny stains of sin;

And only breathed life's morning airs
Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,

My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet ;

But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,

Where love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-farewell.

T. W. STONE.

The following is the only specimen we have seen of the writings of this author.

THE BAY OF NAPLES..

See how the peaceful ripple breaks
In calmness on the verdant shore,
While zephyr, gently breathing, wakes:

The slumbering spirit of each flower,
Which glows in beauteous brilliancy,
Along the margin of the tide,

And oft arrests the wandering eye,
As o'er the waves we gently glide.

Let us unfold the swelling sail,
Beneath the silent, silvery moon;
And catch the softly murmuring gale,
Which breathes in midnight's solemn noon.
And thou, my friend, shalt guide us now
Along the bosom of the bay,
While seated on the lofty prow,
We mark the ripple, that our way
Leaves on the waters, like the streak
Of morning, on an Alpine height,
When Sol's first radiant daybeams break,
In all the glow of infant light.

What sounds resound along the shores !
What echoes wake from off the seas !
While music from Italian bowers
Comes mingled with the evening breeze;
The careless sailor floats along,
Slow wafted by the ebbing flood,
And swells the chorus of the song,
Which joyous peals from hill and wood.
And laughing bands of youth are there,
Who deftly dance to lightest measure,
And sea, and shore, and earth, and air,
Resound to mellow notes of pleasure.

But, ah! 't is past; a deeper brown
Has tinged the foliage of the wood,
Vesuvius' mighty shadows frown
Majestically o'er the flood;
The moon has set, and shadowy sleep
Now holds dominion o’er mankind,
Binding in slumber's vision deep,
The force of thought and power of mind.

In shadowy grandeur, now appears
The genius of the olden time,
And marks the ravages

of