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 watching 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, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,

BRYANT.

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 rang

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soar'd

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 where with 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?

The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave- the dashing of an oar-
A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

---

A word- scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone:
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fearThese are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus?-'tis mystery all!

Darkly we move

we press upon the brink Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!

Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?— So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.