death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them) upon her quiet grave, in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God. XVII.—THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. CHARLES MACKAY. CHARLES MACKAY, an English writer, was born in Perth in 1812. He has been, during much of his life, connected with the newspaper press. In 1858 he visited the United States, where he lectured on Poetry and Song Writing. He has published several works, the best known of which is "The Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions," published in two volumes in 1851. He is best known as a writer of spirited songs and lyrical pieces; some of which have attained great popularity. In some cases they have been set to music by himself. FIRST VOICE. WHAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower? Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand SECOND VOICE. The stars are clear above me, scarcely one Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun; Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge. FIRST VOICE. Look forth again, O watcher on the tower! I see not well, SECOND VOICE. the morn is cloudy still, There is a radiance on the distant hill; Even as I watch the glory seems to grow; But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow. FIRST VOICE. And is that all, O watcher on the tower? Look forth again; it must be near the hour. SECOND VOICE. A mist envelops them, I cannot trace Their outline; but the day comes on apace. FIRST VOICE. We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower; But look again; and tell us, hour by hour, SECOND VOICE. I see the hill-tops now; and Chanticleer FIRST VOICE. Again, again, O watcher on the tower! A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free? SECOND VOICE. I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a song, Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong FIRST VOICE. What doth he say, O watcher on the tower? SECOND VOICE. He prophesies; his heart is full; his lay FIRST VOICE. We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour SECOND VOICE. He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace, FIRST VOICE. Well done! thou watcher on the lonely tower ! SECOND VOICE. It breaks, it comes, the misty shadows fly ; A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky; The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear; XVIII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. PIERPONT. JOHN PIERPONT was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785; and died August 27, 1866. He was originally a lawyer, but afterwards studied theology, and in 1819 was ordained minister of the Hollis Street Church in Boston, where he remained till 1845. He was afterwards settled over congregations in Troy, New York, and Medford, Massachusetts. He was an active laborer in behalf of temperance, antislavery, the improvement of prison discipline, and other reforms; and many of his poems have been called forth by the moral and religious movements of the day. His poetry is characterized by energy of expression, and a generous tone of feeling. The following poem was written for the celebration of the anniversary of the Pilgrim Society of Plymouth, in December, 1824. THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 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 ; 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 : |