LINES

ON THE DEATH OF B. B. THATCHER.

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave. LONGFELLOW.

HARK! the funeral bell is tolling-
Calling to the grave's retreat;
And the funeral car is rolling

Through the city's crowded street.
Soon the marble cell will hold thee
In its dumb and solemn rest-
Soon the grassy turf will fold thee
Closely to its heaving breast!

On thy pallid brow a shadow

From the wing of Death is cast ;

From thy sparkling eye, the brightness
That illumined it hath past.

May the green grass, o'er thee sighing,
Whisper forth its tenderest air;

May the sweet birds, o'er thee flying,

Pour their mellowest sorrows there. Let Nature view with tearful lashes The spot that holds her poet's ashes.

Quenched is now thy studious taper,
And thy chair holds thee no more,
For the scholar's vigil's ended-

His task is done, his toil is o'er.
The spider on thy shelf is weaving
His untouched net from book to book,
And low the poet's harp is resting-
Neglected in his favorite nook.

The thoughtless world may soon forget thee, But, in many a heart thy name

Shall keep its sweet and precious perfume, In bloom and freshness still the same. O'er Time's wide sands the rolling billow May dim the print of thy career,

Yet love and memory still will cherish

For thee the sacred sigh and tear.

LINES.

Classmate, gentle Classmate! fast

The dizzy wheel of time flies round!
Scarce a moment doth it seem

Since thy blushing brow was bound
With the cloistered college crown,
Meekly worn, but nobly won.
As our little band departed,

Pilgrims from our classic home,
Joyous each, and happy-hearted,

Through life's untried scenes to roam,
Little recked we of its sorrow,
Joy to-day and grief to-morrow!

But alas, the thorny way

Hath entangled many feet,

And how many are reposing

Where the churchyard tenants meet!

But no purer name than thine

Fills the tablet's mournful line.

Ashes to ashes-dust to dust!

'Tis written that the glowing cheek In its youthful bloom must fade

As fades the rainbow's painted streak. The silver head, the locks of gold,

The reverend sage, the humble child, Must vanish, with the crumbling mould In rolling hillocks o'er them piled!

173

Gentle Pilgrim-fare thee well!
In thy dewy morn of day,
Yielding scrip and staff and shell,
Thou hast fainted by the way!
All who fill this vast procession,
Travelling down the vale of tears,
Will be shortly sleeping with thee,

Vexed no more with toils and fears.

NOTES.

Page 8.

From old Bungo-nungo-nock,

To where merry Quobomock, &c.

One of these names, now generally syncopated into Bungonock was applied by the Indians to an indentation of the Casco, about three miles from the College buildings. Quobomock was a name given the Androscoggin where it unites with the Kennebec, and forms the Merry-Meeting Bay-four miles from the Colleges in another direction. They are both upon borders of the ancient Pejepscot, also the Indian name of a territory including Brunswick.

Page 8. And the wave-embosomed islands

Of the sea.

Casco Bay, whose North Eastern shore is formed by Brunswick and Harpswell, is remarkable for the fineness of its coast and island scenery. As seen in travelling upon the lower route from Portland to Brunswick, it affords prospects of surpassing beauty. A traveller of no small reputation, has remarked, that the scenery of this Bay resembles that of the Mediterranean more nearly than any thing of the kind he had seen in this country. There are scattered through it more than three hundred and sixty islands of great diversity in extent and scenery—offering a variety of beautiful resorts for sailing parties and pic-nics.