Imbosomed deep in cedars, lonely lake! Thy solemn neighbors that in silence dwell, Save when to searching winds they answer make, Then closer scan thee, in thy guarded cell, No rippling keel hath vexed thee from thy birth, No fisher’s net thy cloistered musing broke, Nor aught that holds communion with the earth Thy sky-wrapt spirit to emotion woke, For thou from man wert fain to hide away, Nursing a vestal purity of thought, And only when stern Winter’s tyrant sway A seal of terror on thy heart had wrought, Gave him one icy gift, then turned away, Unto the pure-eyed heavens, in penitence to pray. There are several pleasantly situated churches on Staten Island. The small one at Clifton, with its dark grained arches of oak, strongly resembles those of the mother land. An ancient, low-browed one, at Richmond, was built and endowed by Queen Anne, in 1714. Around it sleep the dead, with their simple memorials. The sacred music that varied the worship, was sweet and touching, and conducted almost entirely by the seven daughters of its worthy and venerable clergyman, Dr. David Moore, a son of the former bishop of Virginia. He has also charge of another church, at Port Richmond. There we attended divine worship, one cloudless autumnal Sunday, not deeming the distance of thirteen miles, going and returning, as any obstacle. It was a simple edifice, on a green slope, that stretched downward to meet the sea. In his discourse, the white-haired pastor reminded his flock that for twice twenty years he had urged them to accept the invitations of the gospel, on that very spot, where the voice of his sainted father had been also uplifted, beseeching them to be reconciled to God. Earnest zeal gave eloquence to his words; and when they ceased, the solemn organ did its best to uplift the listening soul in praise. At the close of the service many lingered in the church-yard, to exchange kind greetings with their revered guide. Old and young pressed near to take his hand, while with affectionate cordiality he asked of their welfare, as a father among his children. It was patriarchal and beautiful. Religion in its pageantry and pomp hath nothing like it. A boat, with its flashing oars, bore a portion of the worshipers to their homes on the opposite shore. But on the rocks beneath us sat some listless fishermen, idling away the hours of the consecrated day. Ah! have ye not missed salvation’s priceless pearl? The wondrous glory of the setting sun, as we pursued our homeward way, and the tranquil meditations arising from the simplicity of devotion, made this a Sabbath to be much remembered.