Though hailed as gods of old, and only less- (If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold Thee? And next interrogate futurity So fondly tenanted with better things Than e'er experience owned-but both are mute; So full of memories and phantasies, Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn From all vain parley with the elements; And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward. From each material thing its anxious guest, If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, He may vouchsafe himself-Spirit to spirit! O Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee? Welcome the penalty! let that come now, Who would not dare to die? For light like this Peace, my proud aim, And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. Await his will, who hath appointed this, With every other trial. Be that will Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, On Him-the Unrevealed-learn hence, instead, E'en to the perfecting thyself-thy kind- Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau.J. NEAL. O SWITZERLAND, my country, 'tis to thee I strike my harp in agony. My country, nurse of Liberty, Home of the gallant, great, and free, Parents, and home, and friends: Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall; Is now the only mourning plume Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, In the swell of thy peaceable sky. They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, And their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds sing Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by: For deep, in that blue-bosomed water, is laid As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song, In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along. The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge, That bright lake is still as a liquid sky; In morning's first light; and the snowy-winged plover, Where my loved ones sleep, No note of joy on this solitude flings, for shakes the mist from his drooping wings. * * * * * * No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior's arm on the hills was reared; No earthquake reeled; no Thunderer stormed; But the hour when the sun in his pride went down, An everlasting hill was torn From its primeval base, and borne, And the rude cliffs bowed; and the waters fled; The village sank, and the giant trees Leaned back from the encountering breeze, The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, And came down in his pomp; and his path is shown His ancient mysteries lay bare; Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell! The mountain-thy pall and thy prison-may keep thee; Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. 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 grieveThe 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 payAn idle, pageant pile to graces passed away. Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb? Of all that parted virtue felt and did! Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign; Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die; My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled. The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPONT. THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the sea around was black with storms, The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale. The pilgrim exile-sainted name!— 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 ;- The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 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: And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 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, |