The babe that lay on her cold breast- When not a sound but evening's sigh Shall say, "This was my mother's choice THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 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 roll'd that day When the Mayflower moor'd below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapp'd 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to the gale When the heavens look'd dark, is gone;— As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. The Pilgrim exile,-sainted name! Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 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 dress'd, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallow'd 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, It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. THE winds and waves were roaring; They stood, in open air. The music of their psalm. Not thus, O God, to praise thee, Do we, their children, throng; The temple's arch we raise thee Gives back our choral song. Yet, on the winds that bore thee Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee From hearts as true as theirs! What have we, Lord, to bind us To this, the Pilgrims' shore!Their hill of graves behind us, Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes, Be thou their guard, O God! We would not, Holy Father, Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather Where graves and griefs are not; The shore where true devotion Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, And see no other ocean Than that of love divine. THE EXILE AT REST. HIS falchion flash'd along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Gazed as it faded and went down. That wraps his mortal form in death. High is his couch; the ocean flood Far, far below by storms is curl'd, As round him heaved, while high he stood, The world he awed to mourn him? No: Though there thy prophets walk no more,— That crowns Moriah's hill? Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, The streets of Salem now, Nor are their voices lifted up But still the seed of ABRAHAM And Israel's GoD is worshipp'd yet Yes; every morning, as the day The holy name of ALLAH comes At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, "Lo, GOD is GOD! Before him come, I know, when at that solemn call That OMAR's mosque hears not the name But ABRAHAM'S GOD is worshipp❜d there Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt To him who was, at once, her priest To this, when Egypt's ABRAHAM* The trees of palm that overhang I would have mused, while night hung out Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive trees Are shading yet, and in their shade He sought the Father there. I would have gone to Calvary, As near him as they could, I would have stood, till night o'er earth Thy cross thou bearest now! And blood is on thy brow; Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, And now thy cross is on thee laid- It was not mine, nor will it be, To see the bloody rod That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, Thou city of our God! But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murder'd seers, And voices that went up from it Are ringing in my ears,― Went up that day, when darkness fell From all thy firmament, And shrouded thee at noon; and when * This name is now generally written IBRAHIM. THE POWER OF MUSIC.* HEAR yon poetic pilgrimt of the west Chant music's praise, and to her power attest; Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws; Who hangs the canvass where ATALA glows, On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded: Who, for the son of OUTALISSI, twines Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss That Time already sprinkles on the cross Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps, And Superstition o'er her victim weeps; Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, Among Scioto's monumental mounds; Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below, By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, Lost in those towering tombs of other times; For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame, No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame. With sacred lore this traveller beguiles His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves, Or through the wide and green savanna roves, His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest breath of Idumea's airs. Now he recalls the lamentable wail That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, A note for SATAN'S and for HEROD's ear. Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd, And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. How fondly then, from all but hope exiled, To Zion's wo recurs religion's child! He sees the tear of JUDAH's captive daughters Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters; While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung, Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'er the billow, And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. And could not music soothe the captive's wo? But should that harp be strung for JUDAH's foe? While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanced between a revery and a dream, Backward he springs; and through his bounding Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides; His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye; OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM. STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee In the greatness of thy fame. To thy mourning mother's breast. For the stores of science brought us, For the charm thy goodness gave To the lessons thou hast taught us, Can we give thee but a grave? Nature's priest, how pure and fervent Was thy worship at her shrine! Friend of man, of God the servant, Advocate of truths divine,Taught and charm'd as by no other We have been, and hoped to be; But, while waiting round thee, brother, For thy light, 't is dark with thee. Dark with thee?-No; thy Creator, All whose creatures and whose laws Thou didst love, shall give thee greater Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. To thy God, thy godlike spirit Back we give, in filial trust; THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.* THOU, who on the whirlwind ridest, O'er the oceans and their shores; And to give this house to thee. When, for business on great waters, We go down to sea in ships, That there's One who heareth prayer, In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd, When we long have lain becalm'd, Are not to our souls so pleasant As the offerings we shall bring Hither, to the Omnipresent, For the shadow of his wing. When in port, each day that's holy, To this house we'll press in throngs; When at sea, with spirit lowly, We'll repeat its sacred songs. Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, Lose its flag behind the seas; Homeward bound, we'll greet with gladness Its first floating on the breeze. Homeward bound!—with deep emotion, We remember, Lord, that life Is a voyage upon an ocean, Heaved by many a tempest's strife. Be thy statutes so engraven On our hearts and minds, that we, Anchoring in Death's quiet haven, All may make our home with thee. THE SPARKLING BOWL. THOU sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl! Though lips of bards thy brim may press, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll, And song and dance thy power confess, Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree, The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die." I dare not lift thy liquid gem; A snake is twisted round thy stem! * Written for the dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, under the direction of the Boston Port Society, September fourth, 1833. Thou liquid fire! like that which glow'd But thou shalt warm my house no more. What, though of gold the goblet be, Such clusters as pour'd out the wine? And found that life was in the sight. Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells! Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip! Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells Gush o'er your granite basin's lip! To you I look ;—your largess give, And I will drink of you, and live. FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. DAY of glory! welcome day! With thy morning breeze, O'er the trembling seas. From the heaving tide? GoD of peace!-whose spirit fills Now the storm is o'er ;- By the patriot's hallow'd rest, By a despot's throne; By the Pilgrims' toils and cares, ANDREWS NORTON. [Born 1786.] MR. NORTON was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterward tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman. Mr. NORTON is author of "The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels," published, in an octavo volume, in 1837; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited rare scholarship and argumentative abilities. His poetical writings are not numerous. For labouring Virtue's anxious toil, For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh, How blest are they whose transient years Pass like an evening meteor's flight; How cheerless were our lengthen'd way, Did heaven's own light not break the gloom; Stream downward from eternal day, And cast a glory round the tomb! Then stay thy tears; the blest above Have hail'd a spirit's heavenly birth; Sung a new song of joy and love, And why should anguish reign on earth? WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. FAREWELL! before we meet again, Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown, That lie in distant years of pain, I have to journey on alone; To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, Perchance with joys thou canst not share; And when we both were wont to kneel, To breathe alone the silent prayer; But ne'er a deeper pang to know, And felt at last each hope give way. But who the destined hour may tell, But chance what may, thou wilt no more Or charm with friendship's kindest smile Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, And stood the guardian of my tomb. Servant of God! thy ardent mind, With lengthening years improving still, Striving, untired, to serve mankind, Had thus perform'd thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given; "T was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to thy blow; With patient smile and steady eye, To meet each pang that sickness gave, Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears? |