Hail pictured image! thine immortal art Hath snatch’d a hero from the arms of death, In whose broad bosom beat the noblest heart That ever drew on earth a balmy breath; For while amid the sons of men he trod, That true nobility to him was given Whose seal is stamp’d by an approving God, Whose ever-blooming title comes from heaven. The fire of genius glistened in his glance, ’Twas written on his calm majestic brow, That men might look upon its clear expanse And read that God and Nature made him so; Yet that pale temple could not always keep The soul imprisoned in its earthly bars, Born for the skies, his god-like soul doth sweep The boundless circle of the radiant stars. How soft the placid smiles that seemed to bask Round those pale features once the spirit’s shrine And hover round those lips that only ask A second impress from the hand divine! And look upon that brow! a living light Plays like a sun-beam o’er his silver hair, As if the happy spirit in its flight Had left a saint-like glory trembling there. Yet tho’ some skilful hand may softly paint The noble form and features we adore, Such deeds as thine are left, Oh happy Saint! Are left alone for Memory to restore. And still thy virtues like a soft perfume That rises from a bed of fading flowers, Immortal as thyself, shall bud and bloom Deep in these hearts, these grateful hearts of ours. Sons of Columbia! ye whose spirits soar Elate with joyous hopes and youthful fires, Go, imitate the hero you deplore, For this is all that God or man requires. Oh! while you bend the pensive brow of grief, Muse on the bright examples he has given, And strive to follow your ascended chief Whose radiant foot-prints lead to fame and heaven. Oh guard his grave! it is a solemn trust, Nor let a single foeman press the sod Beneath whose verdure sleeps the sacred dust Once hallowed by the quick’ning breath of God. Thus in his lonely grandeur let him lie Wrapt in his grave on fair Ohio’s shore, His deeds, his virtues, all that could not die, Remain with us, and shall for evermore. * * * * * TO A LAND BIRD AT SEA. BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Bird of the land! what dost thou here? Lone wanderer o’er a trackless bound,— With nought but frowning skies above, And cold, unfathom’d seas around; Among the shrouds, with heaving breast And drooping head, I see thee stand, And pleased the coarsest sailor climbs, To grasp thee in his roughen’d hand. And didst thou follow, league on league, Our pointed mast, thine only guide, When but a floating speck it seemed On the broad bosom of the tide?