Unseen Spirits.

The shadows lay along Broadway, "T was near the twilight tide, And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.
Alone walked she; but viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair, -
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo,-
But honor'd well are charms to sell,
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,

A slight girl, lily pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail,

"Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven, By man is cursed alway.

N. P. WILLIS.

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 rolled that day,
When the May-Flower * moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the waves with snow.

The mists that wrapt 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As an angel's wing through an opening cloud and then withdrawn.

Is

seen,

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;

* The May-Flower was the name of the ship in which the pilgrims came over.

And the moon's cold bright 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 yet 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.

PIERPONT.

A Poet's Epitaph.

Stop, mortal! here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the poor,

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace and the grave!

Sin met thy brother every where !
And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt and care,

He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

He fear'd to scorn or hate;

But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great.

He blessed the steward whose wealth makes

The poor man's little more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes

From plunder'd labor's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare,

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man

Who drew them as they are.

ELLIOTT.