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POETRY.
THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.
’Mid the light spray their snorting cam
els stood,
Nor bath’d a fetlock in the nauseous flood—
He comes—their leader comes!—the man
of God
O’er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod,
And onward treads—The circling waves
retreat,
In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet-,
And the chas’d surges, inly roaring, show
The hard wet sand and enral hills below.
With limbs that falter, and with hearts
that swell,
Down, down they pass,—a steep and slip
pery dell.
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl’d,
The ancient rocks, the secrets ol the world;
And tlowers that blush beneath the ocean
green,
And eaves, the sea-calves’ low roof’d haunt,
are seen.
Down, safely down the narrow pass they
tread;
The beetling waters storm above their
head:
While far behind retires the sinking day,
And fades on Edom’S hills its latest ray.
Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light,
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the
night,
Still in their van, along that dreadful road,
Blaz’d broad and fierce the brandish’d
torch of God.
Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave
On the long mirror of the rosy wave:
While*its blest beams a sunlike beat supply,
Warm every cheek and dance in every
eye—
To them alone—for Misraim’s wizard train
Invoke for light their monster gods in vain;
Clouds heaped on clouds their struggling
sight Confine,
And tenfold darkness broods above their
line.
Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led,
And range unconscious through the ocean’s
bed.
Till midway now—that strange and fiery
form
Show’d bis dread visage lightening through
the storm;
With withering splendor blasted all their
might,
And brake their chariot-wheels, and marr’d
their coursers’ (light
c< Fly, Misraim, ily!”—'The ravenous floods
they see,
And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity.-
‘■Fly, Misraim, fly,!”—From Edom’s coral
strand
Again the prophet stretch’d his dreadful
wand:—
With one wild crash the thundering wa
ters sweep,
And all is waves—a dark and lonely deep—
Yet o’er these lonely waves such murmurs
past,
As mortal wailingswell’d the nightly blast;
And strange and. sad the whispering breez
es bore
The groans of Egypt to Arabia’s shore.
[Bishop lleber.]
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The following beautiful article,
which we extract from the Christian
Mirror, probably alludes to the last
tribute of respect which was paid to
the remains of Mrs. Mallenville Al
len, the late consort of president Al
len, of Bowdoin college, whose
decease we mentioned sometime
since in our paper. It is seldom we
meet with a production possessing the
merit which this docs.
Maine Paper.
THE GRAVE YARD.
Its form was a parrallelograin, cut
from a dense grove of ever greens.-
The wild growth of nature had been
eradicated, and the surface levelled,
which was now covered with herbage
of a lovely verdure. Ranges of Mon
uments, rising to a modest distance a-
bove the ground, and intersecting
each other, separated the whole into
equal portions; and pointed out the fu
ture tenements of those, who’project
ed and planted them. A painted en
closure, rendered more beautiful by
the wilderness which surrounded it,
and over which the dark trees Waved
their branches, guarded the spot from
all unhallowed intrusion. Already
had it been made sacred, as the place
in which slept the ashes of the wise
and good, the philosopher and the di
vine.
Two gates opened from the high
way—the one for entrance, the other
for egress, when the rites of sepulture
were to b$ performed. At the for
mer of tbjse 1 saw the hearse enter.
It bore-lalas! the sorrowing train
told but to > emphatically what it bore.
A widowi d father, supporting with
each hand i motherless babe, and fol
lowed by Ahers still, a numerous
household led the procession. You
miglu seeihat the polished circle had
lost one of its brightest ornaments.—
Science and literature were mourn
ers. Among the train were their de
votees and teachers. The chil
dren of want add sorrow were there.
The hand that bad ministered unto
them, was motionless—the voice that
had comforted them was silent in
death. You would have said, She,
“who hath washed the saints’ feet,”
lias gone to her long home; lor the
church and ministers of God might be
seen in the pensive train—feeling,
more than ever, like “strangers and
pilgrims,” as they hud one less to ac
company and encourage them in their
toilsome journey to that “better coun
try.” A fellow worshiper, with
whom they took sweet counsel and
went U the house of Got. in compa
ny, wa* snatched from their society,
never more to join them in “courts
below.”
The sable carriage approached a
newly opened grave and halted. Its
precious burden was taken down, and
deposited in the narrow house. The
wood which Contained and concealed
it, inanimate and senseless, was an
object of ear and tender interest,
from the usl to which it was devoted
and claimel a parting gaze. The
train cluste ed around the grave, with
aching hearis and tearful eyes, to look
their last farewell. Nature aided
their griei Surrounding objects
wore a pensve aspect; lor though the
“king of da)” had yet some distance
to travel, b fore he shoirid reach the
western horzon, still the thick wood
which encircled the spot, intercept
ed his rays, tind cast a sombre shade
over this abode of the dead, producing
what might lliterally be called the
“twilight ofthe grave.” The group
and the sceiery were a tit subject
for the poet or the painter; but a
higher inspiration was there.
The bereived husband stood at the
head ofthe grave, which hadjust “ta
ken the new treasure to its trust,”
the “relies” of his “bosom’s wife”
n nd lint mnt !uti> r\ i luc III til'
was a moment of pleasing, painful re
collection—of oppressive and trium
phant anticipation, according as the
thoughts rested on time of eternity,
matter or spirit, the orphanage or be
loved children, or tile freed spirit of
their now sainted mother, and the
hour when, faith whispered, “we shall
meet «again.” To him no life could
be so desirable, as that which had
lied. The conilicting emotions, the
remembrances and forecasts of that
memorable hour can be conceived in
all their overwhelming effect by
those only, who have had similar ex
perience. He uncovered his head; a
breathless silence reigned through the
sympathising multitude, whose eyes
were all turned to the chief mourner
that they might read on his counte
nance the indications of what was pass
ing within. There was a powerful
struggle of nature; but faith triumph
ed, He broke the silence—arid said,
with a voice, firm, indeed, but so far
mellowed with grief, as to convey a
sentiment with tenfold effect to the
heart— u My friends!—May we nev
er enter this grave yard, to deposite
the remains of a fellow creature, with
out remembering that the day is com
ing, all that are in their graves, shall
hear the voice of the Son of God, and
come forth! they, that have done
good, unto the resurrection of life;
and they, that have done evil, unto
the resurrection ofcondemnation!”
A thrilling emotion pervaded the
assembly. The moral sublimity of
the scene and of its associations, af
fected every heart. If any had come
to the spot an infidel.—an infidel he
could not have beep at that moment—
an infidel he could not have retired.—
lie must have felt that the righteous
hath hope in Ills death; that to him
the grave is not \hrouded in impene
trable darkness, hor associated with
annihilation or despair.
He must have seen the power of
faith in the divine promises, to sup
port the soul, while suffering from the
disruption of the tenderest ties, which
bind it to the earth, and under the
loss of every thing that can render ex
istence here desirable. He must
have seen, that the doctrine of a re-
rection to immortality is suited to man
and that there are times when he
must be a most miserable being with
out it—that there are those, who
when they behold the clods of the val
ley thrown over the dearest objects
they have knovwi on earth, do not sor
row as those who have no hope; for if
we believe that Jesus died and rose a-
gain, even them also, who sleep in
Jesus, will God bring with him.—
Wherefore comfort one another with
these words.
The Hypocondria.—The dispeptic
ought to run away from, or determine
to combat, the first menace of discon
tented feeling. Low spirits may often
be successively resisted, if the at
tempt be commenced sufficiently ear
ly. ‘I will be good’ says the child,
who sees the rod ready to direct the
will into the way of goodness, and ’I
will be cheerful, ought the dull and
dispeptic to say, who observes above
him a cloud of hypocondraic fancies
ready to burst upon his devoted head,
if he chooses the path which leads to
afflictive feeling. It is easier, I shall
be told, to preach than to practice—
to prescribe than to pursue; but of
this I am certain, that before the hab
it becomes confirmed of yielding to
their influence, a determined, and I
would say, conscientious resolution of
dispersing the coming mist of vaporish
depression, may prove, to a consider
able extent, successful and effective:
Possunt quia posse videntnr. ‘We
would not be paradoxical or extrava
gant enough to assert, that for a per
son to be in health, it is sufficient that
he wills it. But without transgress
ing the moderation of truth, we may
venture to give it as our opinion, that
a man often indolently bends under the
burden of indisposition, which a spirit
ed effort would, in the first instance,
have shaken from his shoulders. If,
upon the approach of the malady, he
had set his face against it, he would
probably have arrested it in its threat
ened attack. The doctrine of irresis
tibility, in all its extent, is neither a
true nor a wholesome doctrine, and
the hypocondriac should reflect,
that in saying to gloom, ‘Henceforth
be thou my god!’he not only directs
his own destiny, but implicates others
in his fatal choice.
“Call it madness, call it folly,
Call it whatsoe’er you may,
There’s a charm in melancholy,
I would not, il’I could, be gay.
“Melancholy has something in it of
poetical and sentimental, which consti
tutes a great portion of its charms;
but stripped of its ornamental accom
plishments, and laid bare to ri dissect
ing view, it will be found to consist
in a great measure of pride, selfish
ness, and indolence. 1 cannot con
ceive a more delightful spectacle, than
that of an individual whose constitu
tional cast is melancholy, warring a-
gainst his temperament, and deter
mining to enter with hilarity into the
scenes and circumstances of social life.
In this case we have all the interest
of melancholy, without its objectional
parts.—Dr. Erwin's on Indigestion.
THE FISHERMAN.
Mr. Editor,—I was some time
since walking upon a wharf, where a
fishing boat lay, and as I \vas passing,
and repassing, the master ofthe boat
was uttering the most tremendous
oaths. At length I turned to him,
and standing beside his boat, said. Sir,
I am unacquainted with your business,
what kind of fish are these? He re
plied, “They are Cod-fish.”—IIow
long are you . mally out in order to
obtain your load? “Two or three
weeks,” was the answer. At what
price do you sell them? He inform
ed me. Well, have you not hard
work to obtain a living in this way?
“Yes—hard work, said he. I inquir
ed with what do you bait these fish?
“With clams.” Did you ever catch
mackerel? “Yes.” And I suppose
you bait them with clams, too? “0
no,” said he, “they will not bite at
clams.” Then you must have differ
ent kinds of bait for different sorts of
fish? “Yes.” Well now, did you
ever catch a fish without any bait?
“Yes,” said he, “I was out last year,
and one day, when 1 was fixing my
line, my hook fell into the water, and
the—fool took hold of it, and I drew
him in.” Now, sir said I, I have of
ten thought that Satan was very much
like a fisherman. He'always baits
his hook with that kind of bait which
different sorts of sinners like best; but
when he would catch a profane swear
er, he docs not take the trouble to
put on any bait at all; for the fool will
always bite at the bare hook.
He was silent, his countenance so
lemn; and after a moment’s pause,
as I turned to go away, I heard hitn
say to one standing by him, “I guess
(hat’s a minister.”—Christian Mirror.
FEMALE INFLUENCE.
Every where throughout the circle
of her intercourse, her influence is felt
like the dew of heaven; gentle, silent,
and unseen yet pervading & efficient.
But, in the domestic circle its power
is concentrated; and is like the life-
giving beams of the sun, awakening,
illustrating, and almost creating the
moral aspect of the scene. To speak
first of the filial relation—none can
conceive how much a daughter may
promote the comfort and the moral
benefit of her parents, but those who
have seen the female character ex
hibited under the influence of an en
lightened understanding, and an im
proved heart; which, by their mutual
action, haVe produced the most ex
tended views of duty, with the strong
est desire to fulfil it. As a sister, a
female may exert a most important
influence. With no strong counter
acting circumstances, she may give
what features she pleases to the mor
al and intellectual character of those
with whom she is connected in this re
lation. All the sweet endearments of
mutual affection and confidence will
give weight to her influence. An in
telligent, high-aiming female, of a
well disciplined mind and pious heart,
has been known to give a much higher
cast of character, attainment, and
condition, to a large circle of brothers
and sisters, than they would otherwise
have received. But it is as a mother
that woman has all the powers with
which the munificence of her Divine
Benefactor has endowed her, matured
to their highest perfection, and exer
cised in their greatest strength.
BUTTER.
From the New England Farmer.
The dairy-house should never front
the south, southeast, southwest. It
should, where it may be practicable,
be situated near a good spring of cur
rent water. The proper receptacles
for milk are earthern pans, not lined
nor glazed with lead, or wooden trays.
In warm weather, milk should remain
in the pail till nearly cool before it is
strained, but in frosty weather it
should be strained immediately, and a
small quantity of boiling water may be
mixed with it, which will cause it to
produce cream in a greater abund
ance, and the more so if the pans or
vats have a large surface.
In hot weather the cream should be
skimmed from the milk at or before
sunrise before the dairy gets warm,
nor should the milk, in hot weather,
stand in its receptacles longer than
twenty-four hours. The cream should
be deposited in a deep pan, kept du
ring summer in a cool place, where a
free air is admitted. Unless churn
ing be performed every other day, the
cream should be shifted daily into
clean pans, but churning should be
perfonried at least twice a week, in
hot weather; and this should be done
in the morning before sunrise, taking
care to fix the churn where there is
good draught of air. If a pump churn
is used, it may be plunged a foot deep
into cold water, and remain in that
situation during the whole time of
churning, which will much harden the
butter. A strong rancid flavor will
be given to butter if we churn so near
the fire as to heat the wood in the
winter season.
After the butter is churned, it
should be immediately washed in ma
ny different waters, till it is perfectly
cleansed from milk; and it should be
worked by two pieces of wood, for a
warm hand will soften it and make it
appear greasy.
Butter will require and endure
more working in the Winter than in
Summer.
Those who use a pump churn must
keep a regular stroke; for if they chum
more slowly the butter will, in the
winter, go back, as it is called; and if
the stroke be quick, it will cause a
fermentation, by which means it will
acquire a very disagreeable flavor.
Cows should never be suffered to
drink impure water; stagnant pools,
water wherein frogs spawn, common
sewers, and ponds that receive the
drainings of stables are improper.
Printing for the Blind.—At the E-
dinburgh asylum for the blind, books
of a peculiar description have been
introduced, by which the t)oys are a-
. ble to read slowly but correctly-
