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, Connecticut. 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 has interested himself very much in the cause of education, and has labored assiduously 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 his publications have been numerous, consisting mostly of sermons, charges, and literary addresses. In 1824, he published a small volume of poetry, entitled Songs 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.

THE MOTTO.-Dear love of mine, my heart is thine.

I like that ring-that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy

As were the sterling hearts of old.

I like it for it wafts me back,

Far, far along the stream of time,

To other men, and other days,

The men and days of deeds sublime.

But most I like it, as it tells

The tale of well-requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered,

And youthful faith disdain'd to rove-
How warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied,

Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his "fair and blooming bride.”

How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours-
How, then, the white-robed maiden train
Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers-
And how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride:

All this it tells; the plighted troth-
The gift of every earthly thing-
The 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 travell'd 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,
Oh, who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth!

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry

Profaned her pure and holy light:

Small sympathy is hers, I ween,

With sights like these, that virgin queen!
But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love,
Who watch with us at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon!

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes→→
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost, of other years!
And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep

In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
Oh, softly beams her gentle eye

On those who mourn, and those who die!

But, beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendors may,
There's pureness in her chasten'd light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray :
What power is hers to soothe the heart!-
What power the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,
From dawning light to dying day :-

But, oh, be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!

GRENVILLE MELLEN, 1799-1841.

GRENVILLE 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, 1799, 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 deli

cate, 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 Empires. In 1827, he published Our Chronicle of Twenty-Six, a satire; and in 1829, Glad Tales and Sad Tales,-a volume in prose, from his contributions to the periodicals. The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems, 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 terrible avalanche at The Notch in the White Mountains, in 1826, by which the Willey family was destroyed.1

THE MARTYR.

Not yet, not yet the martyr dies. He sees

His triumph on its way. He hears the crash
Of the loud thunder round his enemies,

And dim through tears of blood he sees it dash
His dwelling and its idols. Joy to him!

The Lord the Lord hath spoken from the sky!
The loftier glories on his eyeballs swim!

He hears the trumpet of Eternity!

Calling his spirit home-a clarion voice on high!
Yet, yet one moment linger! Who are they
That sweep far off along the quivering air?
It is God's bright, immortal company-

The martyr pilgrim and his band are there!
Shadows with golden crowns and sounding lyres,
And the white royal robes, are issuing out,
And beckon upwards through the wreathing fires,
The blazing pathway compassing about,

With radiant heads unveil'd, and anthems joyful shout!

He sees, he hears! upon his dying gaze,

Forth from the throng one bright-hair'd angel near,
Stoops his red pinion through the mantling blaze-
It is the heaven-triumphing wanderer!

"I come we meet again!"-the martyr cries,

And smiles of deathless glory round him play:

Then on that flaming cross he bows-and dies!

His ashes eddy on the sinking day,

While through the roaring oak his spirit wings its way!

1 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 no unusual sublimity to awaken surprise, no extreme pathos to communicate the luxury of grief, no chivalrous narrative to stir the blood to adventure, no high-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."

THE EAGLE.

ON SEEING AN EAGLE PASS NEAR ME IN AUTUMN TWILIGHT.

Sail on, thou lone imperial bird,

Of quenchless eye and tireless wing;
How is thy distant coming heard

As the night's breezes round thee ring!
Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun
In his extremest glory! How!
Is thy unequall'd daring done,

Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now?

Or hast thou left thy rocking dome,
Thy roaring crag, thy lightning pine,
To find some secret, meaner home,
Less stormy and unsafe than thine?
Else why thy dusky pinions bend

So closely to this shadowy world,
And round thy searching glances send,
As wishing thy broad pens were furl'd?

Yet lonely is thy shatter'd nest,
Thy eyry desolate, though high;
And lonely thou, alike, at rest,
Or soaring in thy upper sky.

The golden light that bathes thy plumes,
On thine interminable flight,

Falls cheerless on earth's desert tombs,

And makes the North's ice-mountains bright.

So come the eagle-hearted down,

So come the proud and high to earth,
When life's night-gathering tempests frown
Over their glory and their mirth;

So quails the mind's undying eye,

That bore unveil'd fame's noontide sun;

So man seeks solitude, to die,

His high place left, his triumphs done.

So, round the residence of power,

A cold and joyless lustre shines,

And on life's pinnacles will lower

Clouds dark as bathes the eagle's pines.

But, oh, the mellow light that pours

From God's pure throne-the light that saves!

It warms the spirit as it soars,

And sheds deep radiance round our graves.

CONSCIENCE.

Voice of the viewless spirit! that hast rung
Through the still chambers of the human heart,

Since our first parents in sweet Eden sung
Their low lament in tears-thou voice, that art