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And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of 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's 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 wood rang
To the anthems of the free!
The ocean-eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared,
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim-band ;-
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
And the fiery heart of youth.
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod !
Freedom to worship God!
She had been told that God made all the stars
To the first golden mellowness, a star
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. - Leigh Hunt.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness,
That wipes thy quiet tears, ---
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones
And pat my stooping head,
The tears are in their bed.
THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
Ah! first-born of thy mother,
My bird when prison-bound, -
My prayers shall hold thee round,
To say, "He has departed," --
" is gone,”
To whisper of such woe,
That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping !
Seems going by one's ear,
“ We've finished here."
THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. --Coilins.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And youthful virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening's hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell ; Or ’midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more ;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
MANY a year is in its grave,