HORTICULTURAL GRAVEYARD.

WHO would be buried in a city? Who
Would choose, life's labors done, to lay him down
In the scant ground, assigned as resting place,
Where no grass grows? Or in the sullen tomb,
Loathsome, and sad, to be inurned, or 'neath
The solemn church, where in the dusky aisles
Are rows of vaults, on whose dark, dripping doors
Never falls sunbeam? Sympathy dwells not
In crowded towns; there Avarice hath its reign.
Avarice, that calculates the very worth

And nice proportion of each petty thing
That can be coined to gold. Why, I have seen
In this good city, where a plot of land
Two hundred years ago our sires had given,
To this most sacred purpose consecrate-
Where men might lay their dead: a spot
That opened to the breeze, and shaded, too,
By cheerful trees, which threw their shadow o'er
The grassy graves—now, all begirt with walls
Tow'ring to heaven, that seem to covet e'en
The niggard space allotted to the dead.
And in one corner of this holy soil,

With thrift, a cunning Yankee had him made
A kitchen garden! Yea, I saw the graves
Teeming with corn and squash. 'Twas sad to note

The stalk o'ertop the monuments, and vines
Spreading and curling round the stones that time
Had spared for ages;- spared, to be thus mocked
By calculating plodders, who would fain
Eat vegetables gathered from the bones

Of a dead father, and lick up the food

Grown on a mother's dust. He that would gaze On such perversion, may himself betake

To the King's Chapel burying ground, and weep. July, 1839.

CHARLES RIVER.

I Do remember thee, transparent stream!
And cause there is that I should sometimes dwell
Gratefully on the season loved so well-
Glances of which, in fancy's witching dream,
Come up in sober manhood, Childhood's hour!

When wasted with disease, my languid frame They plunged beneath thy waters. Newly came,

By oft-repeated trial, health and power

To my unhopeful system. Strength of limb,
And renovated life, didst thou restore
To him so helpless and so dead before.

For this, while I gaze on thee, unto Him

Who scooped thy winding way, and fringed thy banks

With drapery of green, I render joyful thanks.

MONT PILATRE.

The Proconsul of Judea here found the termination of his impious life; having, after spending years in the recesses of this mountain, which bears his name, at length, in remorse and despair, rather than in penitence, plunged into the dismal lake which occupies the summit. - Legend in Anne of Geierstein.

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person; see ye to it. - St. Matthew, xxvii. 24.

IMMORTAL infamy is his

Who gave the Saviour up

To bear the Jewish scourge and scorn,

And drink the Roman cup.

He washed his hands in sight of men,
And slander thought to kill,-—
Yet was he foul, and to this hour
His hands are spotted still.

There's something of audacious crime

In guilty Judas found,
Though viler than the vilest thing
That crawls upon the ground;

But he who had not fortitude

In trial's honest hour,

To own the outward influence

Of conscience' secret power,

And whose unfeeling, coward heart,
Intent on selfish ease,

Did seek, with sophistry and art,

Both God and Man to please,

Of God abhorred, of man despised,

And shunned by fiends below -
Where shall the wretch, to hide himself,
And hide his meanness, go!

NEW ORGAN IN CHRIST CHURCH,

PHILADELPHIA.

THEY'VE reared the ORGAN.

He,* whose fond desire

It was to beautify this hoary pile,

Whose voice once lingered sweetly in its aisle,
Is absent from the service. Lo, this spire,
Antique and venerable, looketh down,

As for a century it hath, upon our town;
The doors are open still; along these walls
Swells noble minstrelsy; but now no calls
Of love, persuasive, from his lips shall come —
The pastor that hath wooed for Christ is dumb.
Dumb? No! his song is where ten thousand times
Ten thousand bow; where the melodious chimes
Sound, as abroad the heaven of heavens they roll,
The diapason of the ransomed soul !

*The late Rev. J. W. James, Rector of Christ Church.

A PSALM OF SICKNESS,

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design,

Then man my soul with firm resolve,

To bear and not repine. Robert Burns.

SINCE this, my couch, a battle field

Appointed is to me,

May I, all armed with holiness,
And kindly patience be.

While noble spirits boldly make
Strong onset on the foe,

May I, in sufferance, draw the sword,
And deal as sure a blow.

If I shout not, where trump and drum

The army's triumphs swell,

In the soul's solitude I may

Of equal victory tell,

Not less may these, my passive pains,

With fortitude received,

Speak honor to my Prince, than all

High daring hath achieved,