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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 Adrent, a Jystery; 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 rector 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 Ilalloween, 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 inost laboriously to his parochial duties.

THE HEART's song.

In the silent midnight watches,

List—thy bosom-door!
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,

Knocketh evermore!
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating ;

Tis thy heart of sin :
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth,

Rise, and let me in!

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

To the hall and hut:
Think you Death will stand a-knocking

Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;

But thy door is fast!
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:

Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating

Christ to let thee in:
At the gate of heaven beating,

Wailing for thy sin.
Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,

Hast thou then forgot,
JESUS waited long to know thee,

But he knows thee not!

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland,

Of England green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tollid;
How glorious must their music be

As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice

A nation up to pray!
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,

Upon a Christmas morn,
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

From tower and Gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill

The dim cathedral aisle ;
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!

Those glorious Easter chimes; How loyally they hail thee round,

Old queen of holy times !
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,
And sing the rising of the LORD,

From vale to mountain high.
I love ye-chimes of Motherland,

With all this soul mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung

Of good old English line!
And, like a son, I sing the lay

That England's glory tells; For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells !
And heir of her ancestral fame,

And happy in my birth,
Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;
For thine thy mother's voice shall be,

And here—where God is King,
With English chimes, from Christian spires,

The wilderness shall ring.

OH, WALK WITH GOD.

“ And Enoch walked with God.” Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt find

How he can charm thy way,
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

Shalt tread the way of tears,
His mercy every ill beguiles,

And softens all our fears.
No fire shall harm thee, if, alas!

Through fires He bid thee go;
Through waters when thy footsteps pass,

They shall not overflow.
Oh, walk with God, while thou on earth

With pilgrim steps must fare,
Content to leave the world its mirth,

And claim no dwelling there.
A stranger, thou must seek a home

Beyond the fearful tide,
And if to Canaan thou wouldst come,

Oh, who but God can guide!

Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt go

Down death's dark vale in light,
And find thy faithful walk below

Hath reach'd to Zion's height!
Oh, walk with God, if thou wouldst see

Thy pathway thither tend:
And, lingering though thy journey be,

'Tis heaven and home at end !

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. Wadham!” “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

*« Now,

pluck with which both winner and loser seemed to start afresh; while redoubled cries of “Now for it, Merton !” “Well done, Corpus !" and even “Go it, again!”—which I had supposed an Americanism,—were vociferated from the banks. All at once“a bump!” and the defeated boat fell aside, while the victors pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest, however, was, of course, concentrated about “Wadham,” the leader, now evidently gained upon by “ Balliol.” It was indeed most exciting to watch the half-inch losses which the former was experiencing at every stroke. The goal was near; but the plucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or two of fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm's-length forward. “Hurrah, Balliol !”—“Once more !”—“A bump!”—“Hurrah-ah-ah !”—and a general cheer from all lungs, with hands waving and caps tossing, and every thing betokening the wildest excitement of spirits, closed the contest; while amid the uproar the string of flags came down from the tall staff, and soon went up again, with several transpositions of the showy colors,—Wadham's little streamer now fluttering paulo-post, but victorious Balliol flaunting proudly over all. It was growing dark; and it was surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soon all that frenzy of excitement had vanished like the bubbles on the river.

Impressions of England.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Tuis distinguished poet and essayist, the son of Rev. Charles Lowell, D.D., for nearly fifty years pastor of the West Church, Boston, was born at Cambridge, Mas. sachusetts, on the 22d of February, 1819. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1838, and, after studying law, opened an office in Boston. But he soon found the profession not congenial to his tastes; and, as he was not compelled by necessity to pursue it as a means of living, be returned to his books and trees at his father's residence, Elmwood, near Mount Auburn, determined on making literature bis reliance for fame and fortune.

In 1841 appeared a collection of his poems, entitled A Year's Life, which gave great promise of future excellence. In 1843, in conjunction with his friend Robert Carter, he commenced the publication of a monthly magazine, called “The Pioneer;" but only three numbers were published. Soon after this, he was married to Miss Maria White, of Watertown,-a lady of a highly-cultivated mind, of congenial literary tastes, and adorned with every womanly grace and accomplish

In 1844 appeared the Legend of Brittany, Prometheus, and Miscellancous Poems and Sonnets, which secured the general consent to his admission into the company of men of genius. In 1815, he published his Conversations on some of the Old Poets ; and in 1848, another volume of Poems ; The Vision of Sir Lounfal; and that unique and remarkable book, A Fable for Critics, containing por

ment.

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