And still in ceaseless round the sea- The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious king

sons passed;

Spring piped her carol; Autumn blew Who struck the harp could also whirl the sling,

his blast;

Babes waxed to manhood; manhood Breathe in his song a penitential sigh And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh:

shrunk to age;

Life's worn-out players tottered off the stage;

The few are many; boys have grown to

men

Since Putnam dragged the wolf from

Pomfret's den;

These shared their task; one deaconed
out the psalm,

One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of
Montcalm;

The praying father's pious work is done, Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving Now sword in hand steps forth the

town;

Brave are her children; faithful to the

crown;

fighting son.

On many a field he fought in wilds afar;

Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's

Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian There hangs a murderous tomahawk ;

To serve with willing toil, with skilful hand,

The war-worn saviors of the bleeding land.

In proud array a martial band is seen;
You know what names those ancient His wasting life to others' needs he

Whose belts were buckled when the Sought rest in home and found it in the drum-beat rolled, grave.

But mark their Captain! tell us, who See where the stones life's brief memois he? rials keep,

On his brown face that same old look I The tablet telling where he "fell on see !

sleep,"

Yes! from the homestead's still retreat Watched by a winged cherub's rayless

Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalm- A scroll above that says we all must

he came,

ist's name;

Those saddening lines beneath, the Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace The scanty records of thine honored

"Night-Thoughts" lent:

So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument.

Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines

race,

Call up the forms that earlier years have known,

The scholar son in those remembered And spell the legend of each slanted

The village paths so well thy boyhood Still to my lips thy cherished name re

Whose waters quench a deeper thirst On thy cold forehead with my long

Changed at my lips to sacramental Now from the margin of the silent sea, Take my last offering ere I cross to thee !

wine,

FIRST VERSES.

PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825.

TRANSLATION FROM THE AENEID,- Book I..

THE god looked out upon the troubled deep
Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;
The flame of anger kindles in his eye

As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky;
He lifts his head above their awful height
And to the distant fleet directs his sight,

Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest,
Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed,

And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire

Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire.

On rapid pinions as they whistled by

He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh:

Is this your glory in a noble line

To leave your confines and to ravage mine?
Whom I but let these troubled waves subside
Another tempest and I'll quell your pride!
Go-bear our message to your master's ear,
That wide as ocean I am despot here;
Let him sit monarch in his barren caves,
I wield the trident and control the waves!
He said, and as the gathered vapors break
The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake ;
To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed
And the strong trident lent its powerful aid;
The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main,
And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain.
As when sedition fires the public mind,
And maddening fury leads the rabble blind,
The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm,

Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm,

Then, if some reverend sage appear in sight,

They stand they gaze, and check their headlong flight,
He turns the current of each wandering breast

And hushes every passion into rest,

Thus by the power of his imperial arm
The boiling ocean trembled into calm;
With flowing reins the father sped his way
And smiled serene upon rekindled day.

In my old Æsop, toiling with his bun- Altars once flaming, still with incense

Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less | But Nature lends her mirror of illusion

Home of the struggling, suffering, Time claims his tribute; silence now is