Weep yet not bitter fears; Let them be holy, silent, free from pain: A chain that let it gaze On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er And bring sometimes a flower And whatsoe'er the time Thou comest, at the morn, or eve, or night, Still keep this thought, (for sweet It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet, Ay, surely meet, in heaven. A Noon Scene-BRYANT. THE quiet August noon is come; And mark yon soft white clouds, that rest O, how unlike those merry hours In sunny June, when earth laughs out; When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout!— When in the grass sweet waters talk, But now, a joy too deep for sound, Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care; Away from desk and dust, away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see And where, upon the meadow's breast, Come-and when, amid the calm profound, Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, The village trees their summits rear One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, Where the hushed winds their sabbath keep, Well might the gazer deem, that when, The good forsake the scenes of life,— Like the deep quiet, that awhile New England's Dead.-I. McLELLAN, JUN. "I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever."-Webster's Specch. NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The honored saviors of the land! O, few and weak their numbers were- But to their God they gave their prayer, The God of battles heard their cry, They left the ploughshare in the mould, To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo, And where are ye, O fearless men? I call:-the hills reply again That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast An army now might thunder past, And they heed not its roar. The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away. Installation Hymn.—PIERPONT. "LET there be light!"-When from on high, "Let there be light!"-The light of grace Light of our souls! how strong it grows! As With light and healing in his wings! Give us that light! O God, 'tis given! Churches no more, in cold eclipse, Doth not its circle clasp the brows Long may it, Lord ;-nor let his soul Go through death's gloomy vale alone; But bear it on to its high goal, Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne. The Wanderer of Africa.-ALONZO LEWIS. HE launched his boat where the dark waves flow, He had sat in the cool of the palm's broad shade, |