WILLIAM CROSWELL. THE Rev. William Croswell, D. D., is a son of the Rev. Dr. Croswell, of New Haven, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in the summer of 1824. He was subsequently, for two years, associated with Dr. Doane, now Bishop of New Jersey, in the editorship of the "Episcopal Watchman," at Hartford, after which he removed to Boston, and then to Auburn, in the western part of the state of New York. He is now rector of church in New Haven. Bishop Doane, in a note to his edition of Keble's "Christian Year," remarks that " he has more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he knows. His published poems are characterized by an elegant fancy and a fine vein of religious sentiment. 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, The scene will fade away, For, dazzling on my vision, still With Israel's loveliest daughters, In their beauty half-divine! It is the holy Sabbath eve,— Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, On swarthy brow and piercing glance The two-leaved doors slide slow apart As rise the Hebrew harmonies, With chanted prayers between, And mid the tissued vails disclosed, The sacred records lie. Robed in his sacerdotal vest, A silvery-headed man. With voice of solemn cadence o'er And often yet methinks I see The glow and power that sate Upon his face, as forth he spread And fervently that hour I prayed, That on their hardened hearts the veil But be forever rent in twain Like that before the ark. For yet the tenfold film shall fall, And every eye be purged to read When thou, with all Messiah's signs Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name, 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 seen Before them, in thy shadowy screen, Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue He curtained his ascent, Is it a trail of that same pall For in like manner as he went, My soul, hast thou forgot? Shall be his terrible descent, When thou shalt come again with power, 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, Demanding with authority The heart for God alone! Again the priests in meet array, As then, the sacramental host Of God's elect are by, When many a voice its utterance lost, As then they on my vision rose, And desk and cushioned book repose In solemn sanctity,— The mitre o'er the marble niche, The broken crook and key, The hangings, the baptismal font, The holy table, as was wont, The linen cloth, the plate, the cup, Ere priestly hands are lifted up To bless the bread and wine. The solemn ceremonial past, To serve the Lord, from first to last, And I have sworn, with pledges dire, O Thou, who in thy holy place Grant me, thy meanest servant, That so, replenished from above, And in my office tried, grace Thou mayst be honored, and in love CHRISTMAS EVE. THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe A soft, reviving odor 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 From deeper sources spring than aught Then, though the summer's pride departs. Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts |