Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at New Haven.-CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE.

O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give,
Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared?
Where even they who taught these stones to grieve-
The hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared?
Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared,
Within the griefs and smiles of this short day!

Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared;
This the last tribute love to love could pay-
An idle, pageant pile to graces passed away.

Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb?
Why, victims, garland thus the spoiler's fane?
Hope ye by these to avert oblivion's doom,
In grief ambitious, and in ashes vain?
Go, rather, bid the sand the trace retain,

Of all that parted virtue felt and did!

Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign;
Hence blazoned flattery mocks pride's coffin lid;
Hence towered on Egypt's plains the giant pyramid.

Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die;
Be lowly as the relics ye o'erspread;
Nor lift your funeral forms so gorgeously,
To tell who slumbers in each narrow bed:
I would not honor thus the sainted dead,
Nor to each stranger's careless ear declare

My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled.
O, let me hide the names of those that were
Deep in my stricken heart, and shrine them only there!

The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPONT.

THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

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 he 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.

Song of the Pilgrims.-T. C. UPHAM.

THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,

And, bounding with the wave and wind,
We leave Old England's shores behind-
Leave behind our native shore,

Homes, and all we loved before.

The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of wo,
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;
Still, as long as life shall last,

From that shore we'll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,
Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
But bows beneath a despot's rod
Even where it seeks to worship God.
Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

O, see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land, and other skies!
Columbian hills have met our view!
Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu!

Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.

As long as yonder firs shall spread

Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,—
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land,—

Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.

Now to the King of kings we'll raise
The pæan loud of sacred praise;

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze,
More loud than speak the rolling seas!
Happier lands have met our view!
England's shores, adieu! adieu!

Dedication Hymn.-N. P. WILLIS.

THE perfect world by Adam trod
Was the first temple-built by God:

His fiat laid the corner stone,

And heaved its pillars, one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high-
The broad illimitable sky;

He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtained it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood-
The sea-the sky-and "all was good;"
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang.'

Lord, 'tis not ours to make the sea,
And earth, and sky, a house for thee;
But in thy sight our offering stands-
A humbler temple, "made with hands."

Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars.-HILLHOUSE.

AND didst thou fear the queen of night,

Poor mute and musing child?

She who, with pure and silver light,
Gladdens the loneliest wild?

Yet her the savage marks serene,
Chequering his clay-built cabin's scene:

Her the polar natives bless,

Bowing low in gentleness,

To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night: Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps, Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,.. Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps E'en the lost maniac loves her light,

Uttering to her, with fixed eye,

Wild symphonies, he knows not why.

Sad was thy fate, my child, to see,

In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee.

Being of lonely thought, the world to thee

Was a deep maze, and all things moving on

In darkness and in mystery. But He,

Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon,
What was He ?-From thy brow the roses fled
At that eternal question, fathomless and dread!

O, snatched from ignorance and pain,
And taught, with seraph eye,
At yon unmeasured orbs to gaze,
And trace, amid their quenchless blaze,
Thine own high destiny!

Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain,
And led thy doubtful steps to learning's hallowed fane.

Though from thy guarded lips may press
No word of gratitude or tenderness,-
In the starting tear, the glowing cheek,
With tuneful tongue, the soul can speak;
Her tone is in the sigh,

Her language in the eye,

Her voice of harmony, a life of praise,

Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways.

The tomb shall burst thy fetters. Death sublime

Shall bear away the seal of time,

So long in wo bewailed!

Thou, who no melody of earth hast known,

Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear,

Nor waters murmuring lone,

Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear,

Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphereCan speech of mortals tell

What tides of bliss shall swell,

If the first summons to thy wakened ear Should be the plaudits of thy Savior's love,

The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above?

The Land of the Blest.-W. O. B. PEABODY.

O, WHEN the hours of life are past,
And death's dark shade arrives at last,