THE DEPARTED. In constant lustre burn, The departed the departed Can never more return! The good, the brave, the beautiful! In the cities of the dead! I look around and feel the awe I start to hear the stirring sounds Among the cypress trees; For the voice of the departed Is borne upon the breeze. That solemn voice! it mingles with The thrilling notes of birds, Can never be so dear to me, I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Their tones of love I faintly hear I know that they are happy, The departed!--the departed! And they glide above our memories, But where the cheerful lights of home The departed-the departed Can never more return! DEATH. BY W. 0. B. PEABODY. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold, 'Tis well, at such an early hour So calm and pure-a sinking ray DEATH. Should shine into the heart, with power The bright, young thoughts of early days Is stamped so deeply on my brow; For Heaven is waiting to restore Let no impatient mourner stand And let me hear that gentle tread And still unworn away by years, Has made my weary eye-lids flow With grateful and admiring tears! I go-but let no plaintive tone The moment's grief of friendship tell; Say where the weary slumbers well; For who would mourn the warning given, 79 80 THE PILGRIM FATHERS THE PILGRIM FATHERS. BY JOHN PIERPONT. THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? As they break along the shore: 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to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone;— As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.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!— 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? INFIDELITY. The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest 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, 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, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, .81 Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay Shall foam and freeze no more. INFIDELITY. BY R. C. SANDS. THOU who scornest truths divine, |