much reviving as to exhibit the intellectual vigour of his best days; but at length he has announced to his congregation the unwelcome truth, that, unable any longer to sustain the responsibilities of his pastoral character, he must resign a charge, and an employment under which his people have been edified and built up. Thus have the ministerial labours of one of the most extraordinary men with whom we have been acquainted in either hemisphere, apparently come to a premature termination. Dr. Mason leaves a chasm in pulpit oratory which, on the other side of the Atlantic, at least, cannot be easily filled up. Combining vigour and clearness of intellect with great force of expression; deeply imbued with scriptural knowledge; extensively read in theology, and particularly in the divines of the seventeenth century; possessing a power of detecting error, however unpopular, but seldom equalled, and a boldness in declaring truth, he seemed there to stand unrivalled in the sacred office. In the whole of his ministry he exhibited an ardent zeal, and an evangelical fervour, which convinced all of his sincere desire to promote the best interests of men. To these high qualifications he added no ordinary degree of classical learning. His knowledge of human nature, and his happy faculty of applying this knowledge, in his public ministrations, to the unfolding of hidden principles of action, and to the detection of those insidious but false motives, by which corrupt man is duped and ruined, was as successful as it was rare. He now leaves the scene where his powerful talent has been so long the delight of his astonished hearers; but its effects will live in the hearts and the recollection of thousands when he is sleeping in the dust. It is some relief, however, under these circumstances, that we can add, that the trustees of Dickenson College, in Pennsylvania, have called Dr. Mason to the presidential chair of that Institution. This office he has accepted, and we are gratified by the assurance that his powers are still equal to the undertaking, and that in the providence of God he may still be a blessing to the rising generation, though he ceases as a pastor to instruct his flock. No one has yet offered who is likely to succeed him. "Indeed," says our correspondent, one of his most attached, and at the same time, most judicious, auditors," it will be difficult to find one who will unite, as he did, the opinions and feelings of his people. But I trust the head of the church will not long leave us in suspense." In this hope who that knows the excellence of Dr. Mason, and the importance of the station which he filled in the church of Christ, but will cordially unite, whilst with us they express every kind and Christian wish for the personal happiness and continued usefulness of this eminent servant of the Lord! POETRY. STANZAS, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, "All is vanity!" WHAT murmur is that in the air? What shout that re-echoes abroad? "Tis the noise of a tumult,-the voice of despair,- His lord was a captive in thrall, Encircled by ocean afar; He look'd on the nations, and wither'd them all, His eye, like the lightning, wherever he turn'd, Shot its arrows around him, and blasted, and burn'd. A spirit broods over the deep, And heavy mists hang on the main ; No more shall he tread on thy wave-beaten shore, To deluge the world with the blood of the slain; Those laurels are faded and gone, The wind breathed upon them,-they wither'd forlorn; Too matchless to perish,-too mighty to die, They encircle his brows, but their hero is dead; No mercy was bound in his heart, The meek voice of pity he bade to depart, The widow sat weeping in vain; He joy'd in their sorrow, and mock'd at their pain, He laugh'd them to scorn in the temple of God; And, lo! thou wast risen in blood! I look'd in the evening,- thy brightness was shorn, I thought on thy backward career, I thought on the race thou hadst run,— From the height thou hadst gain'd thy declining was seen, O Gallia! 'twas thine to inspire, 'Twas thine to enkindle, and cherish the fire, Over mountain, and kingdom, and sea; Then set up a shrine, and a god to adore; Where Rhine bears its waters along, And there, in the midst of the plain, Death stalk'd all around him, and cumber'd with slain The torrents of life had descended like rain, And the river roll'd on with its blood-colour'd stain. Then up the high mountains away, (1) Where Rome and where Carthage by turns held the sway, Bright glory was waiting thee there, The heart of the Roman was frozen with care, And thou wert extoll'd to the sky! The queen of the world; thou didst call her thine own, And sat thee with her, in her temple and throne. (2) Lone harp of the desert, (3) art thou, The ruby-bright beams of the morn; Thy strings are polluted and covered with gore, The pride of the strife, at the dawn thou didst hail, He came to the wilds of thy desert, and thought My country!' the Mussulman cried, And Britannia stood ready to aid; (4) Her sons bared their breasts to the death-bolt, and died; And that harpy and vulture who pounc'd on the prey And Acre, the story can tell, (5) (For ever be darken'd that day!) When oaths that were pledg'd for the mighty who fell, In vain did the flower of his youth For the ships of Britannia were gay on the sea, His eagles were strong on the wing; The thundering boom of his cannon had strown Them, like autumn's leaves thick on the sward; He flew like a thunderbolt thick in the fight, Whilst there he was reaping renown, (8) The nations beheld him afar ; He took them, and plac'd them, like stars, in his crown, The thunder, and lightning, of war! Great chieftain of battle, thy soul was a beam, That shook empires to dust, and made life like a dream! He turn'd him, and look'd to the north; He fought with the giant of storms in his wrath, Distress'd and forlorn, he return'd, His comrades were cold in the snows; From the height of his station the despot is cast, Behold! - he is risen again! The brine is beneath him, white foams the wide main, He marshals them, onward they go, For France and Napoleon they vow To bleed at thine altar, O dread Waterloo! 'Tis done! - he is desolate now; To the isle of the ocean they bear him alone, Who alike grasp'd a kingdom, -- or crumbled a throne. Now, tyrant of murder and blood, The hand of the spoiler is high,- The angel of death bends his pinions to fly, He breathes on thy path, with the wrath of his ire, And now thou must meet him, and face - And spectres are starting around; And all in their winding-sheets crimson'd appear, Lo! there is thy comrade who fought, Lo! there is thy foeman, neglected, forgot, |