rection make upon our dead Bodies Perhaps the Worins have feasted themselves upon our Last Dust; but they shall refund it, and give back every (Atom; all that really belongs to our numerical Body. The Fishes perhaps have eaten the Carcase, buried in the Waves, and Lost in the Depths of the Ocean. But the sea also shall return it back, and give up the Dead which are in it. These Bodies may dis solve, and scatter among the Elements. Our Fluids may forsake their Vessels; the zolid contract, and fold up in its primitive Miniature. And even after that the little invisible Bones may moulder to finer Dust, the Dust may refine to Water, wander in a Cloud, float in a River, or be lost in the wide Sea, and undistinguished Drop among the Waves They may be again sucked up by the Sun, and fall in a Shower upon the Earth; they may refresh the Fields with Dew, flourish in a Spire of Grass; look green in a Leaf, or gaudy in a Flower or a Blossom.

THE BUTTERFLY, A TYPE OF THE RESURRECTION; FROM THE MEDITATION OF CASSIM, THE SON OF AIMED. AN ESSAY.

What more entertaining specimen of the Resurrection is there, in the whole Circumference of Nature? Here are all the wonders of the Day in Miniature. It was once a despicable Worm, it is raised a kind of painted little Bird. Formerly it crawled along with a slow and leisurely Motion: now it flutters aloft upon its guilded Wings How much improved is its speckled Covering, when all the Gaudiness of Colour is scattered about its Plumage. It is spangled with Gold and Silver, and has every Gem of the Orient sparkling among its Feathers Here a brilliant spot, like a clear Diamond, twinkles with an unsullied Flame, and trembles with num'rous Lights, that glitter in a gay Confusion. There a Saphire casts a milder Gleam, and shews like the blue Expanse of Heaven in a fair Winter Evening. In this Place an Emerald, like the calm Ocean, displays its cheerful and vivid Green. And close by a Ruby-flames with the ripened Blush of the Morning. The Breast and Legs, like Ebony, shone with a glorious Darkness; while its expanded Wings are edged with the golden Magnificence of the Topaz Thus the illustrious little creature is furnished with the divinest Art, and looks like an animated composition of Jewels, that blend their promiscuous Beams about him. Thus, O Cassim, shall the Bodies of Good Men be raised; thus shall they shine, and thus fly away.

FROM THE CONFLAGRATION.

But 01 what sounds are able to convey
The wild confusions of the dreadful day!
Eternal mountains totter on their base,

And strong convulsions work the valley's face;
Fierce hurricanes on sounding pinions soar,
Rush o'er the land, on the toss'd billows roar,
And dreadful in resistless eddies driven,
Shake all the crystal battlements of heaven.
See the wild winds, big blustering in the air,
Drive through the forests, down the mountains tear,
Sweep o'er the valleys in their rapid course,
And nature bends beneath the impetuous force.
Storms rush at storms, at tempests tempests roar,
Dash waves on waves, and thunder to the shore.
Columns of smoke on heavy wings ascend,
And dancing sparkles fly before the wind.
Devouring flames, wide-waving, roar aloud,
And melted mountains flow a fiery flood:
Then, all at once, imineuse the fires arise,
A bright destruction wraps the crackling skies;
While all the elements to melt conspire,
And the world blazes in the final fire,

Yet shall ye, flance, the wasting globe refino,

And bid the skies with purer splendour shine,
The earth, which the prolific fires consume,
To beauty burns, and withers into bloom;
Improving in the fertile flame it lies,
Fades into formn, and into vigour dies:
Fresh-dawning glories blush amidst the blaze,
And nature all renews her flowery face.
With endless charms the everlasting year
Rolls round the seasons in a full career;
Spring, ever-blooining, bids the fields rejoice,
And warbling birds try their melodious voice;
Where'er she treads, lilies unbidden blow,
Quick tulips rise, and sudden roses glow:
Her pencil paints a thousand beauteous scenes,
Where blossoms bud amid immortal greens;
Each stream, in inazes, murmurs as it flows,
And floating forests gently bend their boughs,
Thou, autumn, too, sitt'st in the fragrant shade,
While the ripe fruits blush all around thy head:
And lavish nature, with luxuriant hands,
All the soft months, in gay confusion blends.

NEW ENGLAND HYMN.

To Thee the tuneful Anthem foars,
To Thee, our Fathers' God, and our's;
This wilderness we chose our seat:
To rights secured by equal laws
From persecution's iron claws,

We here have sought our calm retreat.
See! how the Flocks of Jesus rise!
See! how the face of Paradise

Blooms through the thickets of the wild Here Liberty erects her throne; Here Plenty pours her treasures down; Peace smiles, as heavenly cherubs mild. Lord, guard thy Favors: Lord, extend Where farther Western Suns descend;

Nor Southern Seas the blessings bound; Till Freedom lift her cheerful head, Till pure Religion onward spread,

And beaming wrap the world around

JOSEPH GREEN.

JOSEPH GREEN, who, during the greater part of a long lifetime, maintained the reputation of being the foremost wit of his day, was born in Boston, in 1706, and took his degree at Harvard, at the age of twenty. He next engaged in business as a distiller,* and continued in mercantile pursuits for many years, thereby amassing a large fortune. Without taking a prominent part in politics, his pen was always ready when any occasion for satire presented, to improve it for the columns of the contemporary press, or the separate venture

Jos Green

of a pamphlet. These effusions were in smoothly writton verse, and are full of humor. One of the most prominent is, Entertainment for A Winter's Evening: being a full and true Account of a very strange and wonderful Sight seen in Boston, on the twenty-seventh of December, 1749, at noon day, the truth of which can be attested by a great number of people, who actually saw the same with their own eyes, by me, the Hon. B. B. Esq. This long title is a prelude to a poem of somo dozen loosely printed octavo pages only, in which the celebration of a masonic festival in a church

• "Ambition Ared the 'stiller's pato."-Byles,

is satirized: the procession to the place of assem-
blage; the sermon heard; the adjournment to a
tavern, and the junketing which followed, being |
the subject matter, the writer evidently regarding
a place of public worship as an incongruous loca-
lity for such an assemblage. It is thus summed
up in the opening lines:-

O Muse renown'd for story-telling,
Fair Clio, leave thy airy dwelling.

Now while the streams like marble stand,
Hell fast by winter's icy hand;

Now while the hills are cloth'd in snow;
Now while the keen north-west winds blow;
Fron the bleak fields and chilling air
Unto the warmer hearth repair:
Where friends in cheerful circle met

In social conversation sit.

Cone, goddess, and our ears regale
With a diverting Christmas tale.
O come, and in thy verse declare

Who were the men, and what they were,
And what their names, and what their fame,
And what the cause for which they came
To house of Gol from house of ale,
And how the parson told his tale:
How they retura'd, in manner odd,
To house of ale from house of God

Another of his poe:ns is, A Mournful Lamentation for the Death of Mr. Old Tenor, written after a change in the currency. He was also a contributor with Byles, and others, to " A Collection of Poems, by several hands," published at Boston, in 1744. An Elegy on the long-expected death of Old Janus (the New England Weekly Courant) is no doubt from the pen of one of the two wits, whose productions it is not always easy to distinguish, and whose talents were combined in a wit combat which excited much merriment at the time. It arose from the desire of Governor Belcher to secure the good company of Dr. Byles in a visit by sea to some Indian tribes on the eastern coast of the province. Byles declined his invitation, and the Governor set sail from Boston, alone, on a Saturday, dropping anchor before the castle in the bay, for Sunday. Here he persuaded the chaplain to exchange pulpits with the eloquent Doctor, whom he invited on board in the afternoon, to tea. On leaving the cabin at the conclusion of the repast, he found himself, to his surprise, at sea, with a fair wind, the anchor having been weighed while he was talking over the cheering cup. Return was out of the question, and the Doctor, whose good-natured countenance seems to indicate that he could take as well as give a joke, no doubt made himself contented and agreeable. On the following Sunday, in preparing for divine service, it was found that there was no hymn-book on board, and to meet the emergency, Byles composed a few verses.

On

their return Green wrote an account of this impromptu, with a parody upon it, to which Byles responded, by a poem and parody in return. The whole will be found at the conclusion of this article.

Green's entire was universally directed against arbitrary power, and in favor of freedom. He frequently parodied the addresses of Governor Belcher, who, it is supposed, stood in some awe of his pen. In 1774, after the withdrawal of the charter of Massachusetts by the British Purlin

HYMN WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE.

Great God thy works our wonder raise;
To thee our swelling notes belong;
While skies and winds, and rocks and seas,
Around shall echo to our song.

Thy power produced this mighty frame,
Aloud to thee the tempests roar,
Or softer breezes tune thy name
Gently along the shelly shore.

Round thee the scaly nation roves,

Thy opening hands their joys bestow, Through all the blushing coral groves,

These silent gay retreats below.

See the broad sun forsake the skies,
Glow on the waves and downward glide,
Anon heaven opens all its eyes,

And star-beams tremble o'er the tide.
Each various scene, or day or night,
Lord! points to thee our nourish'd soul;
Thy glories fix our whole delight;
So the touch'd needle courts the pole.

In David's Psalms an oversight
Byles found one morning at his tea,
Alas! that he should never write
A proper psalm to sing at sea.
Thus ruminating on his sent,
Ambitious thoughts at length prevail'1
The bard determined to complete

The part wherein the prophet fail'd.
He sat awhile and stroke his muse,"
Then taking up his tuneful pen,
Wrote a few stanzas for the uso
Of his seafaring brethren.

The task perform'd, the bard content,
Well chosen was each flowing word;
On a short voyage himself he went,
To hear it read and sung on board.
Most serious Christians do aver,
(Their credit sure we may rely on,)
In former times that after prayer,
They used to sing a song of Zion.
Our modern parson having pray'd,

Unless loud fame our faith beguile1, Sat down, took out his book and said, "Let's sing a psalm of Mather Bylos,"

Byles's favorite cat, so named by his friends,

At first, when he began to read,

Their heads the assembly downward hung.

But he with boldness did proceed,

And thus he read, and thus they sung.

THE PSALM

With vast amazement we survey
The wonders of the deep,

Where mackerel swim, and porpoise play

And crabs and lobsters creep.

Fish of all kinds inhabit here,

And throng the dark abode. Here haddock, hake, and flounders arc, And eels, and perch, and cod. From raging winds and tempests free, So smoothly as we pass, The shining surface seems to be

A piece of Bristol glass,

But when the winds and tempests risc.
And foaming billows swell,
The vessel mounts above the skies,
And lower sinks than hell.

Our heads the tottering motion feel,
And quickly we become

Giddy as new-dropp'd calves, and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.
What praises then are due that we
Thus far have safely got,
Amarescoggin tribe to see,

And tribe of Penobscot.

PARODY BY MATHER BYLES

In Byles's works an oversight
Green spy'd, as once he smok'd his chunk;
Alas! that Byles should never write

A song to sing, when folks are drunk.

Thus in the chimney on his block,
Ambition fir'd the 'stiller's pate;
He summon'd all his little stock,

The poet's volume to complete.

Long paus'd the lout, and scratch'd his skull, Then took his chalk [he own'd no pen,] And scrawl'd some doggrel, for the whole Of his flip-drinking brethren.

The task perform'd-not to content -

Ill chosen was each Grub-street word;
Strait to the tavern club he went,

To hear it bellow'd round the board.
Unknown delights his ears explore,
Inur'd to midnight caterwauls,
To hear his hoarse companions roar,
The horrid thing his dulness scrawls
The club, if fame we may rely on,
Conven'd, to hear the drunken catch,
At the three-horse-shoes, or red lion-
Tipling begun the night's debauch.
The little 'stiller took the pint

Full fraught with flip and songs obscene,
And, after a long stutt'ring, meant
To sing a song of Josy Green.
Soon as with stam'ring tongue, to read
The drunken ballad, he began,
The club from clam'ring strait recede,
To hear him roar the thing alone.

SONG.

With vast amazement we survey
The can so broad, so deep,

Where punch succeeds to strong sangree,
Both to delightful flip.

I Drink of all smacks, inhabit here,
And throng the dark abode;

Here's rum, and sugar, and small beer,
In a continual flood.

From cruel thoughts and conscience free,
From dram to dram we pass:
Our checks, like apples, ruddy be;
Our eyeballs look like glass.

At once, like furies up we rise,
Our raging passions swell;
We hurl the bottle to the skies,
But why, we cannot tell
Our brains a tott'ring motion feel,
And quickly we become
Sick, as with negro steaks, and reel
Like Indians drunk with rum.
Thus lost in deep tranquillity,
We sit, supine and sot,

Till we two moons distinctly see-
Come give us t'other pot.

Dr. Byles's cat, alluded to in the piece just quoted, received the compliment of an elegy at her decease, which is stated, in an early manuscript copy in the Philadelphia library, to be written by Joseph Green. The excellence of the lines will, perhaps, embalm grimalkin in a more than Egyptian perpetuity, and give her claim to rank, at a humble distance, with the great ones of her race: "Tyb our cat," of Gammer Gurton's Needle. the sportive companion of Montaigne in his tower,t and the grimalkin who so demurely graces the top of the great arm-chair of the famous Dr. Syntax. Our copy is taken from the London Magazine of November, 1733, where it is introduced by a request for its insertion by a subscriber, and is accompanied by the psalm and parodies already quoted.

Oppress'd with grief in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? what numbers shall I chuse?
For in my fav'rite cat I've lost my muse.
No more I feel my mind with raptures fir'd,
I want those airs that Puss so oft inspir'd;
No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill;
Yet shall my verse deplore her cruel fate,
And celebrate the virtues of my cat.

In acts obscene she never took delight;
No caterwauls disturb'd our sleep by night;
Chaste as a virgin, free from every stain,
And neighb'ring cats mew'd for her love in vain.
She never thirsted for the chickens' blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food;
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching, and unused to bites,
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings asat.
Whene'er I felt my tow'ring fancy fail,

I stroked her head, her ears, her back, and tail;

And as I stroked improv'd my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue:
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purr'd in metre, and she mew'd in rhyme.
But when my dulness has too stubborn prov'd,
Nor could by Puss's music be remov'd,
Oft to the well-known volumes have I gone,
And stole a line from Pope or Addison.

Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat,
She leaping on my knee has took her seat;
There saw the throes that rock'd my lab'ring brain,
And lick'd and claw'd me to myself again.

Then, friends, indulge my grief, and let me mourn,
My cat is gone, ah! never to return.
Now in my study, all the tedious night,
Alone I sit, and unassisted write;

Look often round (O greatest cause of pain),
And view the num'rous labors of my brain;
Those quires of words array'd in pompous rhyme,
Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended and unwatch'd by cats,
Are doom'd a victim to the teeth of rats.

Green, like Byles, and almost all men of true humor, could pass from gay to grave with grace and feeling. The Eclogue Sacred to the Memory of the Rev. Jonathan Mayhew,* which is attributed to him, amply meets the requirements of its occasion. It is fully described in the prefatory argument.

"Fidolio and Duleius, young men of a liberal education, who maintained a great esteem and affectionate regard for the deceased, were separated from each other for several years. Fidelio, after a long absence, pays an early visit to Duleius, his friend and former companion, whom he finds in his bower, employed in study and contemplation. Their meeting begins with mutual tokens of love and affection; after which they enter into a discourse expressing the beautiful appearance of the summer season, and their admiration of the works of Providence; representing, at the same time, the beautiful but shortlived state of the flowers; from whence Fidelio takes occasion to draw a similitude typical of the frailty and uncertainty of human life; he observes the stalk of a vine which has been lately struck by thunder. This providential event reminds Fidelio of the afflictive dispensation of the law of God in the death of a late useful and worthy pastor, which he reveals to his companion. They, greatly dejected, bewail the loss of so trusty, useful, and worthy a man, but mutually console each other, by representing the consummate happiness which saints enjoy upon their admission to the mansions of inmortal felicity. They conclude with an ode, expressing a due submission to the will of Ileaven.'

We quote this conclusion.

ODE

Parent of all! thou source of light! Whose will seraphic powers obey, The heavenly Nine, as one unite, And thee their vow'd obeisance pay.

An Eclogue Sacred to the Memory of the Rev. Dr. Jonsthan Mayhew, who departed this life July 9, anno salutis bumana: 1766, statis 46.

The wise, the just, the plous, and the brave, Live in their deaths, and flourish in the grave, Grain hid in earth repays the peasant's care, And evening suns but rise to set more fair. Buston: printed by Thomas and John Fleet.

Permit us, Lord, to consecrate
Our first ripe fruits of early days,
To thee, whose care to us is great,
Whose love demands our constant praise.

Thy sovereign wisdom form'd the plan,
Almighty power, which none control;
Theu rais'd this noble structure, man,
And gave him an immortal soul

All earthly beings here who move,
Experience thy paternal care,
And feel the influence of thy love,
Which sweetens life from year to year.

Thou hast the keys of life and death,
The springs of future joys and bliss;
And when thou lock'st our door of breath,
Frail life and all its motions cease.

Our morn of years which smile in bloom,
And those arriv'd at eve of age,
Must bow beneath thy sovereign doom,
And quit this frail, this mortal stage.
In all we see thy sovereign sway,
Thy wisdom guides the ruling sun;
Submissive, we thy power obey,
In all we own "thy will is done."
O may our thoughts superior rise,
To things of sense which here we crave;
May we with care that int'rest prize,
Which lies so far beyond the grave.
Conduct us safe through each event,
And changing scene of life below;
Till we arrive where days are spent
In joys which can no changes know.

Lord, in thy service us employ,
And when we've served thee here on earth
Receive us hence to realms of joy,
To join with those of heavenly birth.
May we from angels learn to sing,
The songs of high seraphic strain;
Then mount aloft on cherubs' wings,
And soar to worlds that cease from pain.
With angels, seraphs, saints above,
May we thy glorious praise display
And sing of thy redeeming love,
Through the revolves of endless day.

JOHN CALLENDER

123

preach by the first Baptist Church in Boston, of which his uncle, Elisha Callender, was pastor, having succeeded Ellis Callender, the grandfather of the subject of this sketch, in the same office. In August, 1728, he accepted a call to the Baptist church in Swansey, Massachusetts, where he remained until February, 1730. He was next after settled over the first Baptist church at Newport, where he continued until his death, after a lingering illness, January 26, 1748. Soon after his removal to Newport he became a member of literary and philosophical society established in the place, at the instigation, it is supposed, of Dean Berkeley, in 1780, afterwards incorporated in 1747, with the title, in consequence of the dona

tion of five hundred pounds sterling by Abraham Redwood, of "the Company of the Redwood Library."

In 1739 Mr. Callender published An Histo rical Discourse on the civil and religious affairs of the Colony of Rhode Island and Procidence Plantations, in New England, in America, from the first settlement, 1638, to the end of the first century. It was delivered on the twenty-fourth of March, 1738, the first centennial anniversary of the cession of Aquedneck or Rhode Island by the sachems Cannonicus and Miantunnomu, “unto Mr. Coddington and his friends united unto him.”* It occupies one hundred and twenty octavo pages in the reprint by the Rhode Island Historical Society, and contains a concise and temperate statement of the difficulties with the Massachu setts colonists which led to the formation of the settlement, its early struggles, its part in King Philip's war, and of its social and ecclesiastical affairs. He dwells with just satisfaction on the liberal principles of the colony.

I do not know there was ever before, since the world came into the Church, such an instance, as the settlement of this Colony and Island. In other States, the civil magistrate had for ever a public driving in the particular schemes of faith, and modes of worship; at least, by negative discouragements, by annexing the rewards of honor and profit to his own opinions; and generally, the subject was bound by penal laws, to believe that set of doctrines, and to worship God in that manner, the magistrate pleased to prescribe. Christian magistrates would unaccountably assume to themselves the same authority in religious affairs, which any of the Kings of Judah, or Israel, exercised, either by usurpation, or by the immediate will and inspiration of God, and a great deal more too. As if the becoming Christian gave the magistrate any new right or authority over his subjects, or over the Church of Christ; and as if that because they submitted personally to the authority and government of Christ in his word, that therefore they might clothe themselves with his authority; or rather, take his sceptre out of his hand, and lord it over God's heritage. It is lamentable that pagans and infidels allow more liberty to Christians, than they were wont to allow to one another. It is evident, the civil magistrate, as such, can have no authority to decree articles of faith, and to determine modes of worship, and to interpret the laws of Christ for his subjects, but what must belong to all magistrates; but no magistrate can have more authority over conscience, than what is necessary to preserve the public peace, and that can be only to prevent one ecct from oppressing another, and to keep the peace between them. Nothing can be more evidently proved, than "the right of private judgment for every man, in the affairs of his own salvation," and that both from the plainest principles of reason, and the plainest declarations of the scripture. This is the foundation of the Reformation, of the Christian religion, of all religion, which necessarily implies choice and judgment. But I need not labor a point, that has been so often demonstrated so many ways Indeed, as every man believes his own opinions the best, because the truest, and ought charitably to wish all others of the same opinion, it must seem reasonable the magistrate should have a public leading in religious affairs, but as he almost for ever exceeds the due bounds, and as error prevnils ten times more

• Deed of ConveYADOS.

than truth in the world, the interest of truth and the right of private judginent scem better secured, by a universal toleration that shall suppress all profaneness and immorality, and preserve every party in the free and undisturbed liberty of their consciences, while they continue quiet and dutiful subjects to the

State.

Callender published a sermon in the same year at the ordination of Mr. Jeremiah Condy, to the care of the Baptist Church in Boston, in 1741, on the advantages of early religion, before a society of young men at Newport, and in 1745 on the death of his friend the Rev. Mr. Clap. He also formed a collection of papers relative to the history of the Baptists in America.

Callender was married February 15, 1780, to Elizabeth Hardin of Swansey, Massachusetts. He is described as of medium stature, with regular features, a fair complexion, and agreeable man

ners.

The Centennial Discourse was reprinted in 1838, a century after its first publication, by the Rhode Island Historical Society, with a large number of valuable notes by the Vice-President of the association, the Rev. Romeo Elton, D.D., of Brown University. It contains a memoir, which has formed the chief authority of the present article.

JANE TURELL

JANE, the only daughter of the Rev. Benjamin Colman, of Boston, was born in that city, Febru ary 25, 1708. She early displayed precocious mental power, as before her second year she could speak distinctly, say her letters, and tell stories out of the Scriptures, to the satisfaction of Gov. Dudley, and others around the table,* and two years later could repeat the greater part of the Assembly's Catechism, many of the psalms, long passages of poetry, reading with fluency and commenting in a pertinent manner on what she read. At the age of eleven she composed the following

I fear the great Eternal One above;
The God of Grace, the God of love:
He to whom Seraphims Hallelujah sing,
And Angels do their Songs and Praises bring.
Happy the Soul that does in Heaven rest,
Where with his Saviour he is ever blest;
With heavenly joys and rapture is possest,
No thoughts but of his God inspire his breast.
Happy are they that walk in Wisdom's ways,
That tread her path, and shine in all her rays.

Her poetical attempts were encouraged by her father, who frequently addressed rhymed letters to her, and says: "I grew by degrees into such an opinion of her good teste, that when she put me upon translating a psalm or two, I was ready to excuse myself, and if I had not fear'd to displease her, should have denied her request." He "talked into her all he could, in the most free and endearing manner," and led her to the study of the best models of composition, advantages of which she availed herself with such avidity that she spent entire nights in reading, and before the

Turell's Memoir.