'Tis well-for ye of Misery's tomb
Have burst the iron bars,

And called up slumbering mind, to bloom
Above the fading stars!

I marked each youthful eye, and saw
High purpose kindle there;

I saw the future statesman, or

One who shall venture where

The wise, in elder years have stood;
Or him, whose honors won
Shall throne his name among the good,
His country's choicest son.

Or, moulded here in honest ways,
And led in ductile youth-

One who shall fearless go in praise
And battle for the truth;

Or go to prove how surely peace
Lies fallow on the soil,

When skill and care insure increase

To crown the yeoman's toil.

I read each look of intellect,

And Heaven I thanked again,

That from lost hopes and households wrecked,

Such treasures yet remain ;

And prayed that those who, still in tears,

Tread paths of want and sin,

The thousands of unripened years.

Might here be garnered in.

THE CHILD OF THE TOMB;

A STORY OF NEWBURYPORT.

The following fact is found in Knapp's "Life of Lord Dexter."
WHERE WHITEFIELD sleeps, remembered, in the dust,
The lowly vault held once a double trust;

And PARSONS, reverend name, that quiet tomb
Possessed- to wait the day of weal and doom.
Another servant of the living God,

PRINCE, who (bereft of sight) his way had trod,
Unerringly and safe, life's journey through
Now sought admittance to these slumberers too.
As earth receded, and the mansions blest

Rose on his vision-"Let my body rest

With Whitefield's,' - said he, yielding up his breath, In life beloved, and not disjoined in death.

Obedient to his wish, in order then

Were all things done; the tomb was oped to ken
Of curious eyes-made ready to enclose
Another tenant in its hushed repose:

And, lighted with a single lamp, whose ray
Fell dimly down upon the mouldering clay,
Was left, prepared, to silence as of night,
Till hour appointed for the funeral rite.

It chanced, the plodding teacher of a school A man of whim, bold, reckless, yet no fool— Deemed this an opportunity to test

How far the fears of spirits might infest
The bosom of a child. A likely boy,
The choicest of his flock, a mother's joy,
He took, unscrupulous of means, if he
His ends might gain, and solve the mystery.

Both stood within the mansion of the dead, And while the stripling mused, the teacher fled, Leaving the child, where the dull cresset shone With the dumb relics and his God alone. As the trap-door fell suddenly, the stroke, Sullen and harsh, his solemn revery broke. Where is he? Barred within the dreadful womb Of the cold earth — the living in the tomb! The opened coffins showed Death's doings, sad – The awful dust in damps and grave-mould clad. Though near the haunt of busy, cheerful day, He, to drear night and solitude the prey! Must he be watcher with these corpses! - Who Can tell what sights may rise? Will reason then be true? Must he, — a blooming, laughter-loving child, Be mated thus?—The thought was cruel, wild! His knees together smote, as first, in fear,

He gazed around his prison; then a tear

Sprang to his eyes in kind relief; and said
The little boy, "I will not be afraid.
Was ever spirit of the good man known
To injure children whom it found alone?"
And straight he taxed his memory, to supply
Stories and texts, to show he might rely
Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care —

Who hears a child's as well as prelate's prayer.
And thus he stood - on Whitefield's form his glance
In reverence fixed - and hoped deliverance.

Meanwhile, the recreant teacher, where was he? Gone in effrontery to take his tea

With the lad's mother! - Supper done, he told
The feat that should display her son as bold.
With eye indignant, and with words of flame,
How showers that mother scorn, rebuke, and shame!
And bids him haste! and hastes herself, to bring
Him from Death's realm who knew not yet its sting:
And yet believed - so well her son she knew
The noble boy would to himself be true:
He would sustain himself, and she should find
Him patient and possessed, she trusted well his mind.

The boy yet lives - and from that distant hour Dates much of truth that on his heart hath power; And chiefly this - whate'er of wit is wed

To word of his — to reverence the dead.

SATURDAY EVENING.

My God! this hour doth thought invite,
That bird-like would for shelter flee,
Tired with its six-days' weary flight—
To fold its wings, and rest with Thee.

I long to soar above the vain

And false delights that compass me! Break, Lord, the world's entangling chain, And set the joyful captive free.

'Tis said the time ere that which brings
The early blush of Sabbath light,
Is never vexed by evil things,

Is ne'er disturbed by fiends of night;
So like that hour, I fain would choose
My soul to be-its calm delight
So deep-that Folly must refuse
To stay, and Sin be loath to fright.

Sweet Evening! whose delightful air
Already scents of Sabbath gales;
Refresh me! cheer me! and repair
The vigor that so often fails;
And fit me for the morrow's toil
In gardens where the soul inhales
Rich fragrance, gathering flowery spoil
On rosy hills, in lilied vales.

If such the prospects that may pass
Before a pilgrim here below,

Who gazes through the shepherd's glass,
The far celestial scenes to know-
How glorious, waking from the dream
Of life's delusions, care and wo,
Must that high world of beauty seem
Whose earthly glimpses ravish so!