WORDS BY PIERPONT.

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where are they? The

waves that brought them o'er,

throw their spray, As they break a - long the shore;

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,

Still brood upon the tide ;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile-sainted name!

The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced when he came in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now,

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night,
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;

But the Pilgrim-where is he?

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,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled—

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars, by night.

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 Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

SKETCHES IN BELGIUM.

BY JUNIUS SMITH.

THE Coast in the neighborhood of Ostend, where I landed from an English steamboat, is low, sandy, and level as the Dead Sea. The approach to the port is consequently hazardous at any time-doubly so in the winter season, when high south-west winds prevail. Two wooden piers, constructed upon piles, extend into the sea a short distance from the beach, and to steer between them and safely run into port, is like threading the eye of a needle. The docks, though small, are safe when you are fairly within the locks. Small coasting vessels, stem and stern so much alike, that, removing the helm, you cannot tell the difference, and constructed just as they were when the Dutch squatted in New York, and began to build up New Amsterdam, are the only trading vessels to be seen. Although this is the only sea port of any magnitude in Belgium, excepting Antwerp, the commerce is insignificant.

The city of Ostend lies low. The trenches and fortifications which surround it are extensive, and in good condition, although at present no guns are mounted. The ramparts envelope the city, which sits in a basin; and if you wish to taste the pure Atlantic breeze, you must leave the basin and ascend the walls. The city contains about fourteen thousand inhabitants. The streets are sufficiently broad for a fortified town, well paved and clean; the sidewalks generally flagged. The houses are low, which, to save their heads in case of a siege, is a prudent mode of building an encampment. Without the walls, facing the sea, and parallel with them, runs what was formerly the outworks of the fortifications on that side, but now converted into a promenade, handsomely paved upon the top with brick placed sideways, and wide enough for two carriages driven abreast, but used for pedestrians only. Facing the sea, an inclined plane, making an angle of about forty degrees with the horizon, and reaching from the summit of the dyke to the beach, is constructed with slate-colored stone, placed edgeways, which affords adequate protection against the ocean billows which at flood tide dash against it with ceaseless violence. If a person wishes to enjoy nothing but air and a sea view, without the slightest shade or shelter, his imagination will be gratified with this Belgian walk. The sands are beautiful,