FAITHFUL TO HIS CONSTITUENTS.

HE journeyed on, and baited at each house,
Where they do hang out sign to entertain

Both "man and beast." And he was entertained
With certain glasses of burnt brandy, or

Of Hollands, or the best New England rum,
As suited taste; nor boggled he, nor seemed
Squeamish, or hard to be well satisfied.
And thus did he, or if the weather showed
Or cold or moderate, or rain or shine,

'Twas all the same - his quenchless thirst held good;
And by the time we reached the bustling town,
Where is the seat of government, to which
The gathered wisdom of the State convenes,
Yearly, to make or mend the laws - I found
My friend, the Representative, was drunk!

I marvelled somewhat at this riddle, till,
Waiting a sober hour, I questioned him,
And he did thus reply, all unabashed :
"My good constituents hate the new plans-
And vile plans are they! -'bout the Temperance cause,
And they elected me, for well they knew

I should oppose such notions, and thwart
Endeavors to put down all licenses,→

Which curst endeavors are against His will

Who made all things, and who has said that all

The creatures-surely the "good creature too Are very good. Faithful those friends to me, And I must drink, I love it-for I deem

A man unfit to sit in yon brave State House,
And represent such friends,

who stayed at none

Expedient, or good or bad, to place him there-
Who will not, on occasion, every where

Be faithful to his tried constituents!"

THE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND

IN PORTSMOUTH, N. H.

I STAND where I have stood before in boyhood's sunny prime,

The same - yet not the same, but one who wears the touch of Time;

And gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, But whose inconstant features tell that years have journeyed by,

Since o'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, And chased the bee and plucked the flower, where

ancient dust is laid;

And hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the passing bell,

And started at the coffin's cry, as clods upon it fell.

These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which

I pored,

The same these rhymes and texts, with which my

memory was stored;

These humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where resting bones

Are hidden, though their date and name have perished from the stones.

How rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried here !

What hearts have ached, what eyes have given this conscious earth the tear

How many friends, whose welcome cheered their now deserted doors,

Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy stores!

Yon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stone gleams,

I've visited, I cannot tell how often, in my dreams,That spot o'er which I wept, though then too young my loss to know,

As I beheld my father's form sepulchred far below.

How freshly every circumstance, though seas swept wide between,

And years had vanished since that hour, in vagaries I've seen!

The lifted lid that countenance - the funeral array,

As vividly as if the scene were but of yesterday.

How pleasant seem the moments now, as up their shadows come,

Spent in that domicil which wore the sacred name of

home,―

How in the vista years have made, they shine with mellowed light,

To which meridian bliss has nought so beautiful and bright!

How happy were those fireside hours-how happy summer's walk,

When listening to my father's words or joining in the talk;

How passed like dreams those early hours, till down upon us burst

The avalanche of grief, and laid our pleasures in the dust!

They tell of loss, but who can tell how thorough is the stroke

By which the tie of sire and son in death's forever broke?

They tell of Time! - though he may heal the heart that's wounded sore,

The household bliss thus blighted, Time! canst thou again restore?

Yet if this spot recals the dead, and brings from memory's leaf

A sentence wrote in bitterness, of raptures, bright and

brief,

I would not shun it, nor would lose the moral it will

give,

To teach me by the withered past, for better hopes to live.

And though to warn of future wo, or whisper future bliss,

One comes not from the spirit world, a witness unto

this,

Yet from memorials of his dust, 'tis wholesome thus to learn

And print upon our thought the state to which we

must return.

Wherever then my pilgrimage in coming days shall be, My frequent visions, favorite ground! shall backward glance to thee;

The holy dead, the bygone hours, the precepts early given,

Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way

to heaven.

1837.

PURITY.

Oh, glorious THOU! thy throne of power

Could not remain one single hour,
Were not its deep foundations laid

On laws of holiness, obeyed.