I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!

Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree,
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,

And, as from that, there comes from thee
The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die."
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;

A snake is twisted round thy stem!

Thou liquid fire! like that which glowed
On Melita's surf-beaten shore,
Thou'st been upon my guests bestowed,
But thou shalt warm my house no more;
For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls,
Forth from thy heart a viper crawls!

What though of gold the goblet be,

Embossed with branches of the vine, Beneath whose burnished leaves we see

Such clusters as poured out the wine? Among those leaves an adder hangs! I fear him; for I've felt his fangs.

The Hebrew, who the desert trod,
And felt the fiery serpent's bite,
Looked up to that ordained of God,

And found that life was in the sight.

So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains.

Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells!
Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip!
Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells
Gush o'er your granite basin's lip!
To you I look your largess give,
And I will drink of you, and live.

CHARLES FOLLEN.

Written for the funeral service in commemoration of the life and character of Charles Follen, before the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, April 17, 1840.

H, not for thee we weep; we weep

OH,

For her, whose love and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.

'Tis for ourselves we mourn; we mourn
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.

'Tis for the slave we sigh; we sigh

To think thou sleepest on a shore

Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.

'Tis for our land we grieve; we grieve

That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou should'st leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.

A soul like thine, so true a soul,

Wife, friends, our land, the world, must miss ;
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.

MY FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, SISTERS.

This is the title of a poem of sixteen verses, which is in the author's most tender and beautiful vein. We give only the first four.

THEY are all gone but one,
A daughter and a son

Were, from my parents, early taken away;

And my own childhood's joy

Was darkened when, a boy,

I saw them, in their coffins as they lay.

To manhood had I grown;

And children of my own

Were gathering round me, when my mother died.
I saw not her cold clay,
When it was borne away

And buried by her little children's side,

Beneath the now green sod.

She led me first to God:

Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.
For, when she used to leave

The fireside every eve,

I knew that it was for prayer that she withdrew.

That dew, that blessed my youth,

Her holy love, her truth,

Her spirit of devotion, and the tears
That she could not suppress,

Hath never ceased to bless

My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.

HYMN OF THE LAST SUPPER.

"And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives."— Matthew xxvi. 30.

THE winds are hushed; the peaceful moon

Looks down on Zion's hill;

The city sleeps; 'tis night's calm noon,
And all the streets are still.

Save when, along the shaded walks,
We hear the watchman's call,
Or the guard's footsteps, as he stalks.
In moonlight on the wall.

How soft, how holy, is this light!
And hark! a mournful song,
As gentle as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.

Affection's wish, devotion's prayer,

Are in that holy strain;
'Tis resignation, not despair,

'Tis triumph, though 'tis pain.
'Tis Jesus and his faithful few
That pour that hymn of love;
O God! may we the song renew
Around thy board above!

REMEMBRANCE OF CHRIST.

OU

UR Father, we approach thy board,
As children that would be forgiven ;
Remembering him, thy Son, who poured
His blood, to seal our hope of heaven.
O God, our Saviour! while we thus
Remember him who made us free,
Who agonized and died for us,

Our grateful hearts would rise to thee.
In him, whose bursting heart the cloud
Of sorrow chilled, and wretchedness ;
In him, whose fainting head was bowed
In his unspeakable distress;

Oh, listen to our fervent prayer:

That he, who hung on Calvary's hill,
And gave thee back his spirit there,
May live in our affections still.

HE IS NOT THERE.

A part of an exquisitely touching and beautiful poem of ten stanzas, originally printed in the "Monthly Miscellany," October, 1840. Like the two pieces which follow it, it is not found in the volume of poems.

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!

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 locked;

he is not there!

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.

The following hymn was written by Mr. Pierpont for the consecration of the burial-grounds of the Church of the Saviour, Brooklyn, N.Y. They are situated on a noble eminence in Greenwood Cemetery, are shaded by a variety of ornamental trees, and are surrounded with much of the beauty and loveliness that reign in that city of the dead. The poet, in his frequent visits among his relatives in Brooklyn, the family of the late Joseph L. Lord, was often called upon to exercise his gift for our Unitarian friends there, on special public occasions. His pen was ever ready for the service; and it is in illustration of the marvellous facility and success with which he was wont to respond to all such requests, that, as Rev. Dr. Farley, then pastor of the Church, informs us, he composed these lines in an incredibly short space of time.

CONSECRATION AT GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

GOD, beneath this Greenwood shade,

Beneath this blue autumnal sky,

Would we, by those we love, be laid,

Whene'er it is our time to die.