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HOPE on, hope on, O, restless heart!

Though dark the hour may be For e'en in all thy struggles know

A glory waits for thee!

O keep then still the dew of youth —
Still hold thou fast unto the truth.

What though the strong desires sent forth Unequal ends attain

And thy intensest thought result,

That all of earth is vain

O, not in vain, if truth and right
But arm thee with heroic might.

Toil on, for like the pillar'd stone
O'er which the moss has crept,
And veiled the record there inscribed
While ages round it slept -
Thus, thou mayest on thy tablet read
A truth to meet thine utmost need;

Hast thou, in this unequal strife,
But tendest to a goal,
Whose object realized shall fill

The vastness of the soul

These ardent hopes these wishes high

Belong to that which cannot die.

Grenville Mellen.


MOUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian height
The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,

And spirits from the skies come down at night,

To chant immortal songs to Freedom there!

Thine is the rock of other regions, where
The world of life which blooms so far below,

Sweeps a wide waste; no gladdening scenes appear,
Save where, with silvery flash the waters flow
Beneath the far-off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.

Thine is the summit where the clouds repose,
Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne;
When Temptest mounts his rushing car, and throws
His billowy mist amid the thunder's home!
Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come,
And bow the forests as they sweep along;
While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb,
The storms come forth, and hurrying darkly on,
Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong!

And when the tumult of the air is fled,
And quench'd in silence all tempest flame,
There come the dim forms of the mighty dead,
Around the steep that bears the hero's name!
The stars look down upon them; and the same
Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave
Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame,
And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave,
The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave!

Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year,

Sublime amid thy canopy of snows,

Thy towers in bright magnificence appear!
'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear,

Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue;
When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear,
Thy battlements stand clothed in harmonious hue,
To swell as Freedom's home on man's unclouded view.



GRENVILLE MELLEN was born in the town of Biddeford, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799, and was a son of the late Prentiss Mellen, Chief Justice of Maine. He was educated at Harvard University, and read law with his father, who then resided in Portland. A few months after his admission to the bar, he married a very accomplished young lady, and located himself at North-Yarmouth, in the practice of his profession. Dr. Griswold (h) says, "Within three years in October 1828—his wife to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave, in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy." Mr. Mellen's first articles were contributed to the United States Literary Gazette, published at Cambridge, Mass. His first work, "Our Chronicle of Twenty-Six""-a satire, was published in 1827; "Glad Tales and Sad Tales," prose sketches, in 1839; "The Martyr's Triumph, and Other Poems," in 1834. This volume contained "Buried Valley," "The Rest of Empires," and all of his poems previously published in the Magazines. In 1839, he established his "Monthly Miscellany," which was short lived, on account of his failing health, and its unprofitableness. He contributed a great deal to the various leading Magazines, and also edited several works. During the following summer, he visited the Island of Cuba, in hopes that the sea air and change of climate might tend to his recovery, but, with no perceptible improvement, he returned to New-York where he died on the fifth day of September, 1841.

Man seldom loves more deeply and devotedly the object of his choice, than did Mr. Mellen his young and affectionate wife, and from the hour that witnessed the passing of her gentle spirit up to the world of saints, his life was melancholy and full of sorrow

"For the early loved and lost."

He felt that when his little child went home to its mother's bosom, in her bright abode, that every joy-every hope and ambition of his life was aimless, and could bring no joy or happiness to his deserted home, and two angel forms seemed ever around him, beckoning him up to their celestial home. Like the gifted and gentle hearted Willis Gaylord Clark, he sighed himself away in tears, to the bosom of his beloved, in a brighter home on high, where sorrow, death, and parting are never known. By his death, our State lost one of her most gifted sons, and one who would, had his health and family been spared him, have attained a very exalted position in the literature of our country, and would have left a fame, when dying, that we should have been doubly proud of. Providence, with its usual wisdom and kindness, ordered it otherwise, and he departed from among us ere he had fulfilled his mission and attained the height of his ambition. The poet says, truly,

"Death loves a shining mark,"

for among those of our native Poets who have been stricken down in the prime of life, and the spring-time of their fame, by his blighting breath, the names of the most gifted, the most loved and respected, are recorded. They have not, however, gone from us without leaving something to tell those who succeed them, that they once lived, and toiled, and died. Our State may well mourn the death of such gifted sons, as Grenville and Frederic Mellen, Thatcher, Lamb. Lovejoy, Prentiss, and their associates, who are now sleeping their sleep of death, but not unremembered, and though

"We rear to them no temples proud,

Each hath his mental pyramid."

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