KINGDOM COME.

I Do not believe the sad story
Of ages of sleep in the tomb;

I shall pass far away to the glory

And grandeur of Kingdom Come. The paleness of death, and its stillness, May rest on my brow for awhile; And my spirit may lose in its chillness

The splendour of hope's happy smile; But the gloom of the grave will be transient, And light as the slumbers of worth; And then I shall blend with the ancient

And beautiful forms of the earth.
Through the climes of the sky, and the bowers
Of bliss, evermore I shall roam,
Wearing crowns of the stars and the flowers
That glitter in Kingdom Come.
The friends who have parted before me
From life's gloomy passion and pain,
When the shadow of death passes o'er me
Will smile on me fondly again.
Their voices are lost in the soundless
Retreats of their endless home,

But soon we shall meet in the boundless
Effulgence of Kingdom Come.

THE ARMIES OF THE EVE.

Nor in the golden morning
Shall faded forms return,

For languidly and dimly then
The lights of memory burn:

Nor when the noon unfoldeth

Its sunny light and smile,
For these unto their bright repose
The wondering spirit wile:
But when the stars are wending
Their radiant way on high,

And gentle winds are whispering back
The music of the sky;

O, then those starry millions

Their streaming banners weave,
To marshal on their wildering way
The Armies of the Eve:
The dim and shadowy armies
Of our unquiet dreams,

Whose footsteps brush the feathery fern
And print the sleeping streams.
We meet them in the calmness

Of high and holier climes;

We greet them with the blessed names
Of old and happier times.
And, marching in the starlight
Above the sleeping dust,
They freshen all the fountain-springs
Of our undying trust.
Around our every pathway

In beauteous ranks they roam,
To guide us to the dreamy rest
Of our eternal home.

TO A MIDNIGHT PHANTOM.

PALE, melancholy one!

Why art thou lingering here? Memorial of dark ages gone,

Herald of darkness near:

Thou stand'st immortal, undefiledEven thou, the unknown, the strange, the wild,

Spell-word of mortal fear.

Thou art a shadowy form,
A dreamlike thing of air;
My very sighs thy robes deform,
So frail, so passing fair-
Thy crown is of the fabled gems,
The bright ephemeral diadems

That unseen spirits wear.

Thou hast revealed to me
The lore of phantom song,
With thy wild, fearful melody,

Chiming the whole night long
Forebodings of untimely doom,
Of sorrowing years and dying gloom,
And unrequited wrong.

Through all the dreary night,
Thine icy hands, that now

Send to the brain their maddening blight,
Have pressed upon my brow-

My phrenzied thoughts all wildly blend
With spell-wrought shapes that round me

wend,

Or down in mockery bow.

Away, pale form, away

The break of morn is nigh,

And far and dim, beyond the day

The eternal night-glooms lie: Art thou a dweller in the dread Assembly of the mouldering dead, Or in the worlds on high?

Art thou of the blue waves, Or of yon starry climeAn inmate of the ocean graves, Or of the heavens sublime? Is thy mysterious place of rest The eternal mansions of the blest, Or the dim shores of time!

Hast thou forever won
A high and glorious name,
And proudly grasped and girdled on
The panoply of fame-

Or wanderest thou on weary wing
A lonely and a nameless thing,
Unchangingly the same?

Thou answerest not. The sealed And hidden things that lie Beyond the grave, are unrevealed,

Unseen by mortal eyeThy dreamy home is all unknown, For spirits freed by death alone

May win the viewless sky.

WILLIAM CROSWELL was born at Hudson, in New York, on the seventh of November, 1804. His father, then editor of a literary and political journal, in a few years became a clergyman of the Episcopal church, and removed to New Haven, Connecticut, where the son was prepared for college by Mr. JOEL JONES, since well known as one of the justices of the Superior Court of Pennsylvania. He was graduated at New Haven, in 1822, and, with his brother SHERMAN, soon after opened a select school in that city, which was surrendered at the end of the second quarter, after which he passed nearly four years in desultory reading in the house of his father. An invitation to study medicine, with an uncle, was declined, partly from an unconquerable aversion to surgical exhibitions; and a short experience of the editorial profession, in the office of his cousin, Mr. EDWIN CROSWELL, of the Albany Argus, discouraged all thoughts of devotion to the press and to politics. In the summer before his twentieth birth-day, his reputation for talents was such that the public authorities of Hartford requested him to deliver an oration on the anniversary of the declaration of independence, and he accepted the invitation, substituting a poem of several hundred lines for a discourse in prose. In 1826, after much hesitation, arising from the modesty of his nature, and his sense of the dignity of the priestly office, he entered the General Theological Seminary of the Episcopal Church, in New York, and there, and subsequently under Bishop BROWNELL, in Hartford, pursued the usual course of professional studies, conducting meanwhile for two years, with Mr. DOANE, now Bishop of the Episcopal Church in New Jersey, a religious newspaper called "The Episcopal Watchman." An intimate friendship

thus commenced between Mr. CROSWELL and Mr. DOANE, ended only with Mr. CROSWELL'S life. "Man has never been in closer bonds with man,' says the Bishop, in a discourse on his death, "than he with me, for five and twenty years."

Mr. DOANE having resigned his professorship in Washington College, Hartford, to become rector of Trinity church, in Boston, the editorship of the Episcopal Watchman" was relinquished; and soon after Mr. CROSWELL received priest's orders, in 1829, he too went to Boston, where for eleven years he was settled as minister of Christ church. In this period he was a bachelor, and passing most of his time in "the cloister," a room fitted up in the rear of the church for his study, and at the Athenæum, attended with singular faithfulness to the duties of his calling, while he kept up a loving acquaintance with literature and art, and with a few men of congenial tastes and pursuits.

When Mr. DOANE became bishop of the Epis copal church in New Jersey, Boston no longer possessed its most agreeable charm for his friend, and he wrote:

"TO G. W. D.

"I miss thee at the morning tide,
The glorious hour of prime;

I miss thee more, when day has died,
At blessed evening time.
As slide the aching hours away,
Still art thou unforgot;
Sleeping or waking, night and day,
When do I miss thee not?

"How can I pass that gladsome door,
Where every favorite room
Thy presence made so bright before

Is loneliness and gloom?

Each place where most thou lov'dst to be,
Thy home, thy house of prayer,
Seem yearning for thy company:
I miss thee everywhere."

He also addressed the youthful bishop the following sonnet, which seems now to have had a sort of prophetic significance.

"AD AMICUM.

"Let no gainsaying lips despise thy youth;
Like his, the great Apostle's favorite son,
Whose early rule at Ephuses begun:
Thy Urim and thy Thummim-Light and Truth-
Be thy protection from the Holy One:
And for thy fiery trials, be there shed

A sevenfold grace on thine anointed head,
Till thy right onward' course shall all be run.
And when thy earthly championship is through,
Thy warfare fought, thy battle won,
And heaven's own palms of triumph bright in view,
May this thy thrilling welcome be: Well done!
Because thou hast been faithful over few,

A mightier rule be thine, O servant good and true.'”

In 1840 Mr. CROSWELL resigned the rectorship of Christ church in Boston, to accept that of St. Peter's, in Auburn, New York, where he remained four years, during which period he was married to an estimable woman of Boston; and this last circumstance was perhaps one of the causes of his return to that city, in 1844, though the chief cause was doubtless his sympathy with several of his old friends there as to those views which are known in the Episcopal church as "Tractarian." A new parish was organized, the church of the Advent was erected, and he became its rector, with a congregation in which were the venerable poet DANA, his son, the author of "Two Years before the Mast," and other persons of social and intellectual eminence. Of the unhappy controversy which ensued between the rector of the Advent and his bishop this is not the place to speak; nor, were it otherwise, am I sufliciently familiar with its

merits to attempt to do justice to either party in a statement of it. This controversy was a continual pain to Dr. CROSWELL, and his more intimate friends, until his death, which occurred under the most impressive circumstances, on Sunday, the ninth of November, 1851, just seven years after his return to Boston. He had preached in the morning and during the afternoon service, which was appointed for the children of the congregation, his strength suddenly failed, he gave out a hymn, repeated with touching pathos a prayer, and in a feeble voice, while still kneeling, pronounced the apostolic benediction, and in a little while was dead.

Since the death of Dr. CROSWELL, his aged father, who had previously been occupied with the

arrangement of materials for his own memoirs that they might be written by his son, has published a most interesting biography of that son and in this is the only collection of his poems which has appeared, except a small one which Bishop DOANE many years ago added to an edition of KEBLE'S "Christian Year."

Dr. CROSWELL had a fine taste in literature, and among his poems are many of remarkable grace and sweetness. They are for the most part souvenirs of his friendships, or of the vicissitudes of his religious life, and seem to have been natural and unstudied expressions of his feelings. Bishop DOANE well describes him by saying he had more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he ever knew.

THE SYNAGOGUE.

But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away,"-ST. PAUL.

I SAW them in their synagogue,

As in their ancient day,
And never from my memory

The scene will fade away,
For, dazzling on my vision, still

The latticed galleries shine
With Israel's loveliest daughters,
In their beauty half-divine!
It is the holy Sabbath eve,-
The solitary light

Sheds, mingled with the hues of day,
A lustre nothing bright;

On swarthy brow and piercing glance
It falls with saddening tinge,
And dimly gilds the Pharisee's
Phylacteries and fringe.

The two-leaved doors slide slow apart
Before the eastern screen,

As rise the Hebrew harmonies,

With chanted prayers between,
And mid the tissued vails disclosed,
Of many a gorgeous dye,
Enveloped in their jewell'd scarfs,
The sacred records lie.

Robed in his sacerdotal vest,
A silvery-headed man
With voice of solemn cadence o'er
The backward letters ran,
And often yet methinks I see

The glow and power that sate
Upon his face, as forth he spread
The roll immaculate.

And fervently that hour I pray'd,
That from the mighty scroll
Its light, in burning characters,

Might break on every soul,

That on their harden'd hearts the veil

Might be no longer dark,

But be forever rent in twain

Like that before the ark.

For yet the tenfold film shall fall,
O, Judah! from thy sight,
And every eye be purged to read
Thy testimonies right,

When thou, with all MESSIAH's signs
In CHRIST distinctly seen,

Shall, by JEHOVAH's nameless name, Invoke the Nazarene.

THE CLOUDS.

"Cloud land! Gorgeous land!"-COLERIDGE.

I CANNOT look above and see
Yon high-piled, pillowy mass

Of evening clouds, so swimmingly

In gold and purple pass,

And think not, LORD, how thou wast scen On Israel's desert way,

Before them, in thy shadowy screen,

Pavilion'd all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue

Which the Redeemer wore, When, ravish'd from his followers' view, Aloft his flight he bore,

When lifted, as on mighty wing,

He curtained his ascent,

And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing
Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall
Of many-colour'd dyes,

That high above, o'ermantling all,
Hangs midway down the skies-
Or borders of those sweeping folds
Which shall be all unfurl'd
About the Saviour, when he holds
His judgment on the world!
For in like manner as he went,-
My soul, hast thou forgot?-
Shall be his terrible descent,

When man expecteth not!
Strength, Son of man, against that hour.
Be to our spirits given,

When thou shalt come again with power, Upon the clouds of heaven'

THE ORDINAL.

ALAS for me if I forget

The memory of that day

Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet
E'en sleep can take away!

In dreams I still renew the rites
Whose strong but mystic chain
The spirit to its God unites,

And none can part again.
How oft the bishop's form I see,
And hear that thrilling tone
Demanding with authority

The heart for God alone; Again I kneel as then I knelt,

While he above me stands, And seem to feel, as then I felt, The pressure of his hands.

Again the priests in meet array,

As my weak spirit fails,
Beside me bend them down to pray
Before the chancel-rails;

As then, the sacramental host

Of Gon's elect are by,

When many a voice its utterance lost,
And tears dimm'd many an eye.

As then they on my vision rose,
The vaulted aisles I
see,

And desk and cushion'd book repose

In solemn sanctity,

The mitre o'er the marble niche,

The broken crook and key,

That from a bishop's tomb shone rich
With polished tracery;

The hangings, the baptismal font,
All, all, save me unchanged,
The holy table, as was wont,

With decency arranged;
The linen cloth, the plate, the cup,

Beneath their covering shine,
Ere priestly hands are lifted up
To bless the bread and wine.

The solemn ceremonial past,

And I am set apart

To serve the LORD, from first to last,
With undivided heart;

And I have sworn, with pledges dire,

Which Gop and man have heard,
To speak the holy truth entire,
In action and in word.

O Thou, who in thy holy place
Hast set thine orders three,

Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace
To win a good degree;

That so, replenish'd from above,
And in my office tried,

Thou mavst he honoured, and in love
Thy church be edified!

CHRISTMAS EVE.

THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallow'd fane

A soft, reviving odour breathe

Of summer's gentle reign;

And rich the ray of mild green light
Which, like an emerald's glow,

Comes struggling through the latticed height
Upon the crowds below.

O, let the streams of solemn thought
Which in those temples rise,

From deeper sources spring than aught
Dependent on the skies:

Then, though the summer's pride departs,
And winter's withering chill

Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts
Shall be unchanging still.

THE DEATH OF STEPHEN.

WITH awful dread his murderers shook, As, radiant and serene,

The lustre of his dying look

Was like an angel's seen; Or Moses' face of paly light,

When down the mount he trod, All glowing from the glorious sight And presence of his God.

To us, with all his constancy,

Be his rapt vision given,
To look above by faith, and see

Revealments bright of heaven.
And power to speak our triumphs ont,
As our last hour draws near,
While neither clouds of fear nor doubt
Before our view appear.

THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING.

WE Come not with a costly store,
O LORD, like them of old,
The masters of the starry lore,

From Ophir's shore of gold:
No weepings of the incense tree
Are with the gifts we bring,
No odorous myrrh of Araby

Blends with our offering.

But still our love would bring its best, A spirit keenly tried

By fierce affliction's fiery test,

And seven times purified: The fragrant graces of the mind, The virtues that delight

To give their perfume out, will find Acceptance in thy sight.

MR. PRENTICE is a native of Preston, in Con. necticut, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. He edited for several years, at Hartford, "The New England Weekly Review," in connection, I believe, with JOHN G. WHITTIER; and in 1831

he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the "Journal," of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. Nearly all his poems were written while he was in the university. They have never been published collectively.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

[form,

"Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirr'd, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield Flash'd in the light of midday-and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time-
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe-what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on

He
presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain-crag,-but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink,
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations; and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of GoD,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,
To darkle in the trackless void :-yet Time-
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

LINES TO A LADY.

LADY, I love, at eventide,

When stars, as now, are on the wave,
To stray in loneliness, and muse

Upon the one dear form that gave
Its sunlight to my boyhood; oft
That same sweet look sinks, still and soft,
Upon my spirit, and appears
As lovely as in by-gone years.

Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now,
With deep and soul-like murmuring,
Through the dark pines; and thy sweet words
Seem borne on its mysterious wing;