Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau.J. NEAL. O SWITZERLAND, my country, 'tis to thee I strike my harp in agony. My country, nurse of Liberty, Home of the gallant, great, and free, Parents, and home, and friends: Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall; That nods above a people's tomb. Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, In the swell of thy peaceable sky. They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song, In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along. The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge, That bright lake is still as a liquid sky; In morning's first light; and the snowy-winged plover, Where my loved ones sleep, No note of joy on this solitude flings, Nor shakes the mist from his drooping wings. * * * * * * No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No earthquake reeled; no Thunderer stórmed; But the hour when the sun in his pride went down, An everlasting hill was torn From its primeval base, and borne, And the rude cliffs bowed; and the waters fled; Leaned back from the encountering breeze, The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, And came down in his pomp; and his path is shown His ancient mysteries lay bare; Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell! The mountain-thy pall and thy prison-may keep thee, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at New Haven.-CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE. O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give, Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared? Where even they who taught these stones to grieveThe hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared? Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared, Within the griefs and smiles of this short day! Here sunk the honored. vanished the endeared; This the last tribute love to love could payAn idle, pageant pile to graces passed away. Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb? Of all that parted virtue felt and did! Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign; Hence blazoned flattery mocks pride's coffin lid; Hence towered on Egypt's plains the giant pyramid. Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die; My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled. The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPONT THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the sea around was black with storms, The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, The pilgrim exile-sainted name!— Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night Still lies where he laid his houseless head ;- The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, The pilgrim spirit has not fled: And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. Song of the Pilgrims.-T. C. UPHAM. THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail, And, bounding with the wave and wind, Homes, and all we loved before. The deep may dash, the winds may blow, From that shore we'll speed us fast. For we would rather never be, O, see what wonders meet our eyes! Here, at length, our feet shall rest, As long as yonder firs shall spread Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,— Shall those cliffs and mountains be Now to the King of kings we'll raise More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, Dedication Hymn.-N. P. WILLIS, THE perfect world by Adam trod |