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GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D.D., LL.D., Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the Diocese of New Jersey, was born in Trenton, New Jersey, on the 27th of May, 1799. At the age of nineteen, he graduated at Union College, and soon after commenced the study of theology. He officiated, for four years, as assistant minister in Trinity Church, New York, and, in 1824, was appointed Professor of Belles-Lettres and Oratory in Washington College, Hartford, ConDecticut. This chair he resigned in 1828, and accepted an invitation from Trinity Church, Boston, as an assistant minister. The next year, he was married to Mrs. Eliza Greene Perkins, and, in 1830, was elected the rector of the church in which for two years he had officiated as assistant. On the 31st of October, 1832, he was consecrated Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church of New Jersey, and the next year became rector of St. Mary's Church, Burlington.
Besides attending to the arduous duties of his official position, Bishop Doane bas interested himself very much in the cause of education, and has labored assidaously to promote its best interests. In 1837, he founded St. Mary's Hall, Burlington,-a school for young ladies; and, in 1846, Burlington College,—both of which are highly flourishing.
Bishop Doane has published no large work upon any one subject; yet bis pablications have been numerous, consisting mostly of sermons, charges, and literary addresses. In 1824, he published a small volume of poetry, entitled Sunge by the Way, chiefly Devotional; and, from time to time, occasional pieces of singular beauty. Indeed, throughout all his writings, both prose and poetry, there is seen a refined taste and a classic finish, that give him a rank among our purest writers. He died at Burlington, N. J. April 26th, 1859.
ON AN OLD WEDDING-RING.
THE DEVICE.-Two hearts united.
Dear love of inine, my heart is thine.
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As were the sterling hearts of old.
Far, far along the stream of time,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
The tale of well-requited love;
And youthful faith disdain'd to rove
Though she, unpitying, long denied,
He won his “fair and blooming bride.”
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hoursHow, then, the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers-
They stood, in all their youthful pride,
Which bind the husband to his bride :
The gift of every earthly thingThe hand in hand—the heart in heart
For this I like that ancient ring. I like its old and quaint device;
“Two blended hearts”—though time may wear them, No mortal change, no mortal chance,
“ Till death,” shall e'er in sunder tear them. Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,
Their hope in heaven, their trust in God, In changeless, heartfelt, holy, love,
These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather, Still, hand in hand, they travellid on
Kind souls! they slumber now together. I like its simple poesy, too:
“Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!” Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine, “ This heart is thine, mine own dear love!"
Thine, and thine only, and forever: Thine, till the springs of life shall fail;
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness,
Of heartfelt, holy love, the token: What varied feelings round it cling !For these, I like that ancient ring.
THAT SILENT MOON.
That silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
And superstition's senseless rite,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
And start the tear for those we love,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
The happy eves of days gone by ;
On lonely eyes that wake to weep
Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
And fall where'er her splendors may,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray:
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
From dawning light to dying day:
GRENVILLE MELLEN, 1799–1841. THENVILLE Mellen, son of the late Chief-Justice Prentiss Mellen, LL.D., of Maine, was born in the town of Biddeford, in that State, on the 19th of June, 1789, and graduated at Harvard University in 1818. He entered the profession of the law, but, finding it not suited to his feelings, abandoned it for the more congenial attractions of poetry and general literature. He resided five or six years in Boston, and afterwards in New York. His health had always been rather delicate, and in 1840, in hopes of deriving advantage from a milder climate, he made a voyage to Cuba. But he was not benefited materially by the change, and, learning, the next spring, of the death of his father, he returned home, and died in New York on the 5th of September, 1841.
Mr. Mellen wrote for various magazines and periodicals. In 1826, he delivered, at Portland, before the Peace Society of Maine, a poem, entitled The Rest of Expires. In 1827, he published Our Chronicle of Twenty-Six, a satire; and in 1829, Glad Tales and Sad Tales,—& volume in prose, from his contributions to the periodicals. The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poema, appeared in 1834. The first-named poem is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. In the Buried Valley he describes the terribia avalanche at The Notch in the White Mountains, in 1826, by which the Willey family was destroyed.'
His triumph on its way. He hears the crash
And dim through tears of blood he sees it dash
The Lord—the Lord hath spoken from the sky!
He hears the trumpet of Eternity!
Calling his spirit home--a clarion voice on high!
That sweep far off along the quivering air ?
The martyr pilgrim and his band are there!
And the white royal robes, are issuing out,
The blazing pathway compassing about,
With radiant heads unveild, and anthems joyful shout!
Forth from the throng one bright-hair'd angel near,
It is the heaven-triumphing wanderer!
And smiles of deathless glory round him play:
His ashes eddy on the sinking day,
Upon the merits of Grenville Mellen's poetry, a writer in the 22d vol. of the “American Quarterly Review” thus remarks :-" There is in these poems po unusual sublimity to awaken surprise, no extreme pathos to communicate the luxury of grief, no chivalrous narrative to stir the blood to adventure, no bigh-painted ardor in love to make us enraptured with beauty. Yet we were charmed; for we love purity of sentiment, and we found it; we love amiability of heart, and here we could perceive it in every stanza. The muse of Mellen delights in the beauties, not in the deformities, of nature : she is more inclined to celebrate the virtues than denounce the vices of man."
ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT.
Sail on, thou lone imperial bird,
Of quenchless eye and tireless wing;
As the night's breezes round thee ring!
In his extremest glory! How!
Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now?
Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine,
Less stormy and unsafe than thine ?
So closely to this shadowy world,
As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd ?
Thy eyry desolate, though high;
Or soaring in thy upper sky.
On thine interminable flight,
And makes the North's ice-mountains bright.
So come the proud and high to earth,
Over their glory and their mirth;
That bore unveil'd fame's noontide sun;
His high place left, his triumphs done.
A cold and joyless lustre shines,
Clouds dark as bathes the eagle's pines.
From God's pure throne—the light that saves !
And sheds deep radiance round our graves.
Through the still chambers of the human heart,
Their low lament in tears——thou voice, that art