temper, by nature, was ardent, and inclined to action. His passions were quick, and capable of an intensity of motion which, when it was kindled by either intellectual or moral indignation, amounted almost to fury. But how rarely-how less than rarely -was any thing of this kind exhibited in his public career! How restrained from all excess which reason could reprove, or virtue condemn, or good taste reject, were these earnest impulses, in the accommodation of his nature to "that great line of duty" which he had set up as the course of his life! Seen in his public duties, his attitude and character-the one elevated above familiarity, the other purged of all littlenesses-present a position and an image almost purely sublime. But when viewed in the gentler scenes of domestic and friendly relation, there are traits which give loveliness to dignity, and add grace to veneration; like the leaves and twigs which cluster around the trunk and huge branches of the colossal elm, making that beautiful which else were only grand. His sentiments were quick and delicate; his refinement exquisite. His temper was as remote from plebeian as his principles were opposite to democratic. If his public bearing had something of the solemnity of Puritanism, the sources of his social nature were the spirit and maxims of a cavalier. His demeanor towards all men illustrated, in every condition, that "finest sense of justice which the mind can form." IN ALL THINGS ADMIRABLE, IN ALL THINGS TO BE IMITATED; IN SOME THINGS SCARCE IMITABLE AND ONLY TO BE ADMIRED. A. CLEVELAND COXE. A. CLEVELAND COXE (who has adopted an older spelling of the family name) is the son of Rev. Samuel H. Cox, D.D., and Abiah Hyde Cleveland,' and was He gets his middle name from his mother, the daughter of Rev. Aaron Cleveland, (1744-1815,) of Norwich and Hartford, Connecticut. He was the son of Rev. Aaron Cleveland, (1719-1757, a graduate at Harvard College in 1735,) and, from his promising talents, was early destined for college. But, his father (rector of the Episcopal Church at Newcastle, Delaware) dying when he was but twelve years old, and leaving nine other children unprovided for, he was apprenticed to a hatter, and, when of age, established himself in business at Norwich. Subsequently (in 1775) he was chosen a representative to the State Legislature, and served in that capacity for two years. When he was over forty years of age, he experienced a great change in his religious views, and immediately entered upon the study of theology. He was ordained two years afterwards, and preached with great acceptance in various places (part of the time as a missionary in the early settlements of Vermont) until the day of his death, which took place in New Haven in 1815. He was a man of strong native powers of mind, of a most benevolent temper, and of quick and genial wit and humor, which made him a delightful companion. He wrote a great deal, but was so careless of his productions that but few have born in Mendham, New Jersey, (where his father was first settled,) May 10, 1818, and graduated at the New York City University, with honorable distinction, in 1838. While a student, in 1837, he published Advent, a Mystery; and other Poems. After leaving the University, he entered upon the study of theology, and in 1841 was ordained deacon, settled in Westchester, New York, and was married to Catharine Hyde, of Brooklyn. In 1842, he accepted the rectorship of St. John's Church, Hartford. In 1851, he went to England, where he received great attentions from many eminent scholars and the highest dignitaries of the English Church, the fame of his Christian Ballads having preceded him. On his return home, he remained at Hartford till 1854, when he was elected recter of Grace Church, Baltimore, where he now is. Mr. Coxe's principal publications are as follows:-In 1840, Athanasion,' and Miscellaneous Poems, and Christian Ballads, the latter of which passed through many editions in England as well as in this country, and, next to Keble's "Christian Year," have probably enjoyed the greatest popularity ever accorded to such a work. In 1844, he published Halloween, and other Poems; and in 1845, Saul, a Mystery. In 1855, he collected and published his Impressions of England, originally contributed for the "New York Church Journal." The book has gone through several editions, and has been very highly and deservedly commended. Besides these larger works, Mr. Coxe has written many valuable articles for the religious periodicals in England and America; such as "Modern English Poetry," and "The Poetry of Cowper," for the "Biblical Repository;" "Devotional Poetry," for the "New York Review;" "Schools in American Literature," and "Writings of Hawthorne," for the "Church Review;" and several articles for "Blackwood's Magazine." He has lately written but little for the press, as he devotes himself most laboriously to his parochial duties. THE HEART'S SONG. In the silent midnight watches, How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; 'Tis thy heart of sin: 'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, been preserved. Before he was twenty years old, he wrote The Philosopher and Boy, which may be found in "The Poets of Connecticut," and which is superior to any American poetry prior to 1780. In 1775, he published a poem against Slavery: it is in blank verse, and consists of about nine hundred lines. He published also a poem entitled Family Blood, a Burlesque; and two peace sermons, in 1815, entitled The Life of Man Inviolable, which were reprinted in England. I have felt thus much, at least, to be due to my pious and gifted ancestor, not having given him a regular place in my book, with selections from his poetry. Of the Athanasion, the late Professor Henry Reed thus wrote:-"There is no word I am in the habit of using more cautiously than the word poetry, no title I apply with more reserve than that of poet; but there cannot be here a moment's hesitation in pronouncing this to be a genuine burst of poetry. I did not think there was among us the power to produce any thing equal to it." Death comes down with reckless footstep Think you Death will stand a-knocking JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth; Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth: Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, JESUS waited long to know thee, THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, And calleth with a seraph's voice Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Outbreaking, as the angels did, For a Redeemer born; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly deck'd and mistletoe, To keep the festival! The chimes of England, how they peal Where hymn and swelling anthem fill Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls, And stain the florid tracery And banner-dighted walls! And then, those Easter bells, in Spring. And sing the rising of the Lord, I love ye-chimes of Motherland, . And bless the LORD that I am sprung And heir of her ancestral fame, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land, The joy of all the earth; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, With English chimes, from Christian spires, OH, WALK WITH GOD. "And Enoch walked with God." Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt find And lead thee with a quiet mind Into his perfect day. His love shall cheer thee, like the dew That bathes the drooping flower, That love is every morning new, Nor fails at evening's hour. Oh, walk with God, and thou with smiles His mercy every ill beguiles, And softens all our fears. No fire shall harm thee, if, alas! Through waters when thy footsteps pass, Oh, walk with God, while thou on earth A stranger, thou must seek a home And if to Canaan thou wouldst come, Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt go And, lingering though thy journey be, OXFORD BOAT-RACE. Going into Christ Church Meadows, in company with several gownsmen, we soon joined a crowd of under-graduates, and others who were seeking the banks of the Isis. The rival boats were still far up the stream; but here we found their flags displayed upon a staff, one above the other, in the order of their respective merit at the last rowing-match. The flag of Wadham waved triumphant, and the brilliant colors of Balliol, Christ Church, Exeter, &c. fluttered scarce less proudly underneath. What an animated scene those walks and banks exhibited, as the numbers thickened, and the flaunting robes of the young academics began to be seen in dingy contrast with the gayer silks and streamers of the fair! Even town, as well as gown, had sent forth its representatives, and you would have said some mighty issue was about to be decided, had you heard their interchange of breathless query and reply. A distant gun announced that the boats had started, and crowds began to gather about a bridge in the neighboring fields, where it was certain they would soon be seen, in all the speed and spirit of the contest. Crossing the little river in a punt, and yielding to the enthusiasm which now filled the hearts and faces of all spectators, away I flew towards the bridge, and had scarcely gained it when the boats appeared,-Wadham still ahead, but hotly pressed by Balliol, which in turn was closely followed by the crews of divers other colleges, all pulling for dear life, while their friends, on either bank, ran at their side, shouting the most inspiriting outcries! The boats were of the sharpest and narrowest possible build, with out-rigged thole-pins for the oars. The rowers, in proper boat-dress, or rather undress, (closefitting flannel shirt and drawers,) were lashing the water with inimitable strokes, and "putting their back" into their sport, as if every man was indeed determined to do his duty. Now, Wadham!" "Now, Balliol!" "Now, Balliol!" "Well pulled, Christ Church!" with deafening hurrahs and occasional peals of laughter, made the welkin ring again. I found myself running and shouting with the merriest of them. Several boats were but a few feet apart, and, stroke after stroke, not one gained upon another perceptibly. Where there was the least gain, it was astonishing to see the |