MY CHILD.

I cannot make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study-chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes,-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair,
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear;
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.'

O no, no-let me lie

Not on a field of battle, when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head:
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when Death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,

Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,
And the bald Eagle brings

The cluster'd stars upon his wide-spread wings,
To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that Beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance:
I know that bards have sung,

And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;
I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of these piles I've seen:

The one at Lexington, upon the green
Where the first blood was shed
That to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,

The Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy Tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,

To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,-that would not be hard.-The Neighbors,

And which the waters kiss
That issue from the gulf of Salamis.
And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over, as they stroll,
Watch'd by some turban'd boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquer'd flying, and the conqueror's shout.
But, as his eyes grow dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums? No: let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depth! Or let me leave
The world when round my bed

Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits-spirits who have bless'd
The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

And in my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor have no power
To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup

That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds

That I have scatter'd there, in virtuous deeds
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground

Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps!-that those
Whom I have striven to bless,

The wanderer reclaim'd, the fatherless,

May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer

That they may die like him whose bones are mouldering there.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH, 1785-1842.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, January 13, 1785. Having learned the art of printing in his native State, he removed to New York in 1809, and was for some years editor of a newspaper there. Afterwards, he published a weekly miscellany, called "The Ladies' Literary Gazette;" and in 1823, in conjunction with Mr. George P. Morris, he established "The New York Mirror," long the most popular journal of literature and art in this country. In the latter years of his life he suffered from paralysis; and he died in New York, December 9, 1842, much respected for his moral worth and poetic talent.

Mr. Woodworth published, in 1813, an Account of the War with Great Britain, and in 1818, a volume of Poems, Odes, and Songs, and other Metrical Effusions. From the latter we select the well-known song, by far the best of his lyrics, and which will ever hold its place among the choice songs of our country, called

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

The wide spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in the well.

ANDREWS NORTON, 1786-1853.

REV. ANDREWS NORTON, D.D., was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, on the 31st of December, 1786, and graduated at Harvard College in 1804. He studied theology, but never became a settled clergyman; and in 1809, he was elected tutor in Bowdoin College, which situation he held for two years. In 1811, he was appointed tutor and librarian in Harvard; and, in 1813, he succeeded Rev. Dr. Channing as Biblical lecturer. Upon the organization of the theological department, in 1819, he was appointed "Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature," and fulfilled its duties till 1830, when he was compelled by ill health to resign it. He continued to reside in Cambridge till his death, which took place on the 18th of September, 1853. Dr. Norton was married, in 1821, to Miss Catherine Eliot, daughter of Samuel Eliot, Esq., of Boston.

Dr. Norton was a profound and accurate scholar, an eminent theologian, and for talent, acquirements, and influence, one of the first men in New England. He wrote occasionally for the literary and theological journals published in his vicinity, and is the author of several theological works. His greatest and most matured work is on the Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels, the first volume of which appeared in 1837, and the second and third in 1844. He also published A Statement of Reasons for not believing the Doctrine of Trinitarians concerning the Nature of God and the Person of Christ, and some other religious tracts of a controversial nature. His contributions to the literary and religious journals of his time, though not numerous, were of a very able character. He was the editor of the "General Repository and Review," which was published in Cambridge, and was continued for three years, from 1812. To the new series of the "Christian Disciple," in 1819, he contributed many valuable papers. In the early volumes of the "Christian Examiner," the articles on the "Poetry of Mrs. Hemans," on "Pollok's Course of Time," on the "Future Life of the Good," and on the "Punishment of Sin," and in the fourth, fifth, and sixth volumes, a series of articles on the Epistle to the Hebrews, are from his pen. In the "North American Review," his most noticeable articles are those on "Franklin," in September, 1818; on "Byron," in October, 1825; on Rev. William Ware's "Letters from Palmyra," in October, 1837; and a Memoir of Mrs. Grant of Laggan, in January, 1845. He has also written some verses of a devotional cast, of great beauty and sweetness.1

1" Mr. Norton's writings are all impressed with the same strongly-marked qualities, bearing the image of the man; the same calm but deep tone of religious feeling; the same exalted seriousness of view, as that of man in sight of God and on the borders of eternity; the same high moral standard, the same transparent clearness of statement; the same logical closeness of reasoning; the same quiet earnestness of conviction; the same sustained confidence in his conclusions, resting as they did, or as he meant they should, on solid grounds and fully-examined premises; the same minute accuracy and finish; the same strict truthfulness and sincerity, saying nothing for mere effect. And the style is in harmony with the thought,-pure, chaste, lucid, aptly expressive, unaffected, uninvolved, English undefiled; scholarly, yet never pedantic, strong, yet not hard or dry; and, when the subject naturally called for it, clothing itself in the rich hues and the beautiful forms of poetic fancy, that illumined, while it adorned, his thought.”—Christian Examiner, November, 1853.