With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear, Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way!

Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen

Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt."

GOETHE.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance-
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour'd;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;

Surely these things were all thine own-
So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;

What was thy tale ?—O gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,

Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning starThine was the void, the gloom,

The straining eye that follow'd far

His fast receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirits far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-
These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine !-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught-
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given—
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN

NEW ENGLAND.

"Look now abroad-another race has fill'd

Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and

green meads.'

THE breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,

BRYANT.

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soar'd

rang

From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;—
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trode.

They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God.

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever ;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf--the ocean-which may wound-
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."
Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no

more;

Is not this all a mystery?—Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?