LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 167 Prayer at the cross in fervor pour'd, THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. "Look now abroad-another race bas fill'd Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads."-Bryant. THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark Not as the conqueror comes, Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea: And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam; There were men with hoary hair There was woman's fearless eye, There was manhood's brow serenely high, What sought they thus afar? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?- The soil where first they trode. They have left unstained, what there they found- THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. "And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever;-it may be a sound A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may woundStriking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." Childe Harold THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Whence are those thoughts and whither tends their way? The sudden images of vanish'd things, That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown, And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, These are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear? And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? THE DEPARTED. Darkly we move we press upon the brink Th' immortal being with our dust entwined ?— THE DEPARTED. "Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings AND shrink ye from the way To the spirit's distant shore ? Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array The warrior kings, whose banner Flew far as eagles fly, They are gone where swords avail them not, From the feast of victory. And the seers who sat of yore By orient palm or wave, They have pass'd with all their starry lore Can ye still fear the grave? We fear! we fear!-the sunshine Is joyous to behold, And we reck not of the buried kings, Nor the awful seers of old. Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays Have made your deep hearts burn They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, And the beautiful, whose record Is the verse that cannot die, They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, Would ye not join that throng 169 And the masters of the mighty song Those songs are high and holy, Linger then yet awhile, As the last leaves on the bough!- There have been sweet singing voices There are seats left void in your earthly homes, Soft eyes are seen no more, That made Spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before- We fear not now, we fear not! Though the way through darkness bends; THE PALM TREE.* IT waved not through an eastern sky, It was not fann'd by southern breeze Strange look'd it there!-the willow stream'd Where silvery waters near it gleam'd, The lime bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the desert's tree, A lustre in its fan-like shade. * This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins. THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. There came an eve of festal hours- And bright forms glanced-a fairy show- But one, a lone one, midst the throng, Had something of the sea wave's moan! These have one fountain deep and clear The same whence gush'd that childlike tear! THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S. THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn When the first rich breath of the rose is born? Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes; 171 |