While the language free and bold How the vault of heaven rung, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, Our joint communion breaking with the su The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are one "" John Pierpont. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. HE Pilgrim fathers-where are they? THE The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Stili roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the May-Flower moored below, When the sea around was black with storins, 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 ; 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, 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. "PASSING AWAY." WAS it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear— Like the silvery tones of a Fairy's shell That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he his notes, as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore?— Are set to words: as they float, they say, But no; it was not a Fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear, Striking the hour, that filled my ear, And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, Upon Noon's hot face: yet one couldn't but love her, While yet I looked, what a change there came! Yet, just as busily, swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept, From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone How OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhoc. And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well- For often at noon, when returned from the field, |