THE LYRE.

But soon the bloom of summer fled,
In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along;
Oh! for some angel, as they passed,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shrieked how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm!
It loudly shrieked but ah in vain ;

The savage wind more fiercely blew ;
Once more- - it never shrieked again,
For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,

Was dreadful-but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,

And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,

That Lyre they could not wake or warm.

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61

The towering oak and ancient pine
Our noble forests bear;

The maple bough its blossoms
Flings on the scented air;

And flock and herd and waving grain
Each slope and upland crown;
And autumn winds from laden bough
The mellow fruits shake down;
The fragrant clover tempts the bee,
Its blushing sweets to pry,
And in tall ranks the glossy maize
Points upward to the sky.

No tyrant landlord wrings our soil,
Or rends its fruit away;

The flocks upon our own green hills,
Secure from plunder stray;

No bigot's scourge or martyr's fires
A barbarous creed fulfil,

For the spirit of our stern old sires

Is with their children still.

And pure to heaven our altars rise,
Upon a bloodless sod,

Where man with free unfettered faith

Bows down and worships God.

SONG OF THE HUSBANDMAN.

No midnight revel wastes our strength,
Or prints our brows with care;
We shun the noisy wassail,

The serpents coiling there;

But childhood's ringing tones of mirth,
And love's refined caress,

With the pure page of knowledge,

Our peaceful evenings bless.

And underneath our pillow

There's a spell for slumber's hour,

And for the sons of toil alone

That magic spell hath power.

Our homes! our dear New-England homes!
Where sweet affections meet;
Where the cool poplar spreads its shade,
And flowers our senses greet;
The lily rears her polished cup,
The rose as freshly springs,
And to the sky looks gaily up,

As in the courts of kings;

And the vine that climbs the window,
Hangs drooping from above,
And sends its grateful odors in
With messages of love.

Then hail to thee! New England!
Thou cherished land of ours;
Our sons are like the granite rocks,
Our daughters like the flowers.
We quail to none, of none we crave,
Nor bend the servile knee;

The life-blood that our fathers gave,
Still warms the firm and free.
Free as our eagle spreads his wings,
We own no tyrant's rod,

No master but the King of kings,
No monarch but our God!

63

AUTUMN.

BY NATHANIEL A. HAVEN.

I LOVE the dews of night,

I love the howling wind;

I love to hear the tempests sweep
O'er the billows of the deep!

For nature's saddest scenes delight
The melancholy mind.

Autumn! I love thy bower,
With faded garlands drest;
How sweet, alone to linger there
When tempests ride the midnight air!
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour,
The sabbath of the breast!

Autumn! I love thee well;
Though bleak thy breezes blow;
I love to see the vapors rise,

And clouds roll wildly round the skies,
Where from the plain the mountains swell,
And foaming torrents flow.

Autumn! thy fading flowers

Droop but to bloom again;

So man, though doomed to grief awhile,

To hang on Fortune's fickle smile,

Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers,
Nor sigh for peace in vain.

SKETCH OF CHIEF JUSTICE RICHARDSON.

BY JOEL PARKER, LL. D.

How often, apparently, is the world indebted to accident for the benefits received from some of the most distinguished men! The casting of a book in the way of slumbering intellect incites it to overcome all obstacles in the pursuit of knowledge. A beautiful harangue or a successful argument is sometimes the spark that lights the flame of ambition in the breast of one before destined to other pursuits, and he burns with the desire of emulation, and strikes out for himself a more brilliant, if not a more happy career. Accidental injuries in the workshop and in the field, incapacitating the party, for a greater or less period, from manual labor, have given to science some of her most persevering and successful votaries.

"We call it chance - but there is a Divinity

That shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."

An instance is before us. WILLIAM MERCHANT RICHARDSON was born at Pelham, in this State, January 4, 1774, and labored upon his father's farm until he was about fifteen years of age, when an injury to his hand for a time incapacitated him for active exertions. During the period of leisure thus forced upon him, he indulged a taste for study, and determined to procure for himself a collegiate education. This he accomplished, and graduated at Cambridge University in 1797.

In the course of his collegiate studies, and during the time he officiated as an instructer, he became thoroughly imbued with a taste for poetry, and classical and general