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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,
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 jewelled 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 prayed,
That from the mighty scroll
Its light, in burning characters,
Might break on every soul,

That on their hardened 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 seen
On Israel's desert way,

Before them, in thy shadowy screen,
Pavilioned all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue
Which the Redeemer wore,
When, ravished 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 colored dyes,
That high above, o'ermantling all,
Hangs midway down the skies--
Or borders of those sweeping folds
Which shall be all unfurled
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!

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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 God's elect are by,

When many a voice its utterance lost,
And tears dimmed many an eye.

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

And desk and cushioned 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 God 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,
To win a good degree;

That so, replenished from above,

And in my office tried,

grace

Thou mayst be honored, and in love
Thy church be edified!

CHRISTMAS EVE.

THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallowed fane

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
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.

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