CHURCHES IN BOSTON.

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Yet there are graves, whose rudely-shapen sod Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod, Graves where the verdure has not dared to shoot, Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root, Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, The eternal record shall at length proclaim Pure as the holiest in the long array

Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay.

The air is hushed; the street is holy ground; Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound;

As, one by one, awakes each silent tongue,
It tells the turret whence its voice is flung.

The Chapel,* last of sublunary things That shocks our echoes with the name of King's, Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang;The simpler pile,† that, mindful of the hour When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower, Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw, Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill;

*King's Chapel.

The Church in Brattle Square.

Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire,

Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire;*

The Giant, † standing by the elm-clad green,
His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene,
Whirling in air his brazen goblet round,
Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound;-
While, sad with memories of the olden time,
The Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime,
Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song,
But tears still follow as they breathe along.

Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range Where man and nature, faith and customs, change, Borne in thy memory, each remembered tone Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze

Through the warm billows of the Indian seas;
When-ship and shadow blended both in one
Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun,
From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon
Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon;
When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings,
And thy poor sea-bird folds her tattered wings,
Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal,

And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal!

*The Old South Church. Park Street Church. Christ Church.

LOVE, HOPE, AND FAITH.

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Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain, Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain.

Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean, To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, His heart lies warm among his triple hills!

LOVE, HOPE, AND FAITH.

SYLVESTER JUDD.

BLESS, holy Love! our calm retreat;
The lily's fair, the rose is sweet;
Than rose or lily, purer bloom

The hearts thy grace and power illume.

O Hope divine! support our souls;
The shadows fall, the thunder rolls ;
When terror all the land enshrouds,
With thy blue eye disperse the clouds.

The mountain hides us from the East;
In us be living Faith increased;
The mountain from its place we fling,
Or o'er its top our vision wing.

BISHOP HUBERT.

BERNARD BARTON.

'Tis the hour of even now,

And with meditative brow,

Seeking truths as yet unknown,

Bishop Hubert walks alone.

Fain would he, with earnest thought,
Nature's secret laws be taught;

Learn the destinies of man,

And creation's wonders scan.

And further yet, from these would trace

Hidden mysteries of grace,

Dive into the deepest theme,

Solve redemption's glorious scheme.

Far he has not roamed, before,

On the solitary shore,

He hast found a little child,

By its seeming play beguiled.

BISHOP HUBERT.

In the drifted, barren sand

It has scooped, with baby hand,
Small recess, in which might float
Sportive fairy's tiny boat.

From a hollow shell, the while,
See, 't is filling, with a smile,
Pool as shallow as may be
With the waters of the sea.

Hear the smiling Bishop ask,

"What can mean such infant task?'
Mark that infant's answer plain,
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"'Tis to hold yon mighty main.”

"Foolish infant," Hubert cries,
"Open, if thou canst, thine eyes:
Can a hollow scooped by thee
Hope to hold the boundless sea?"

Soon that child, on ocean's brim,.
Opes its eyes and turns to him:
Well does Hubert read its look,
Glance of innocent rebuke:

While a voice is heard to say,
"If the pool, thus scooped in play,
Cannot hold the mighty sea,

What must thy researches be?

وو

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