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The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest
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:
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 May-Flower lay Shall foam and freeze no more.
BY R. C. SANDS.
THOU who scornest truths divine,
From the void abyss's brink.
BY ANNA M. WELLS.
THE flowers, the many flowers That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours,
Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew; They, to the summer air
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield; Vainly, to bind her hair,
The village maiden seeks them in the field.
The breeze, the gentle breeze
That wandered like a frolic child at play,
Loitering mid blossomed trees,
Its whispered love is to the violet given;
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.
The brook, the limpid brook
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,—
The sun no more looks down upon its play;—
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.
The hours, the youthful hours,
In dreams that ne'er could know reality;-
Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away And dear hopes were destroyed
Like buds that die before the noon of day.
Young life, young turbulent life,
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, "T is lost mid folly's strife,
O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force. Nor deem youth's buoyant hours
For idle hopes, or useless musings given:
Who dreams away his powers,
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven!
A few weeks since a mendicant appeared in our village, pale and emaciated and convulsed with spasmodic affection, brought on to all appearance, by an irritation of wounds received in the battles of our independence. The many and deep scars with which his scull and breast and arms were disfigured, evinced that the tragedy of our revolution had been to him no bloodless drama. He asked not for the means to pamper appetite. His face bespoke him an honest and a temperate man. He begged only, for humanity's sake, a pittance to support nature till he could reach his few surviving friends further north. It was an affecting sight to see an old man—a veteran of that sacred war, (in which he had lost three sons) begging an alms to aid him on to the spot, where, in the wretched hovel which he could call his own, he might put up his last prayer for his ungrateful country, cover his face with his tattered mantle and die.--Vermont American.
AND thou hast seen, thou sayst, old man,
The Lion in his ire,
When from his strained and blood shot eye,
And thou hast heard, old man, thou sayst,
The terror of his roar,
That echoed 'mid our mountain rocks,
And rang along our shore.
And thou hast stood unblenchingly
When carnage waved her dripping wing.
God help thee, father, for the world,
It sheltereth not the shelterless,
Ay, it can gaze upon the front
Why left they not thy weltering corse
On Bunker's smoking steep—
When through thy brow the death-shot ploughed That furrow broad and deep?
Or why on Yorktown's crimson plain
Didst thou not yield thy breath?
Far better had that bloody sleep
Then hadst thou bled as Warren bled,
And like Montgomery died—
Thy name were chronicled
The heroes of our pride.