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 soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, There were men with hoary hair, There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they foundFreedom to worship God! · Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades, Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide "How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying [These glorious verses will find an echo in the breast of every true descendant of the Pilgrims; and give the name of their authoress a place in many hearts. She has laid our community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every one must feel the sublimity and poetical truth, with which she has conceived the scene presented, and the inspiration of that. And oh! the home whence thy bright smile deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the pealing of an organ.] THE HEBREW MOTHER. THE rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain, The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, wearyhearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still "Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, "What have I said, my child ?—Will He not hear| Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. ON A MONUMENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy! "I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child. child? When the first rich breath of the rose is born? Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to seeWhen will the hour of thy rising be? "Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me, Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, THE CHILD AND DOVE. SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL. THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, Thou art a thing to recall the hours. When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark- Thou'rt gone from us, bright one--that thou shouldst And life be left to the butterfly!* Thou 'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough, -Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How may we love but in doubt and fear, THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. When a world was our own in some dim sweet FROM "THE PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove, Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? POEM. THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on Its earnest looks are lifted to the face, That mother left that child-went hurrying by She hung-but no! it could not thus have been, Her lord, in very weariness of life, From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest more Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled, Her child bent o'er her-called her-'t was too late! TO THE IVY. OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, OH! how could Fancy crown with thee, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose check To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, In ancient days, the god of wine, Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Where kings before his eagles bent, Around the victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past, Thou in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Beneath a blue, Italian sky, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry. And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine High from the fields of air, look down And deck the humblest grave. The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes, In sculpured beauty waving fair.— These perish all—and what remains?— Thou, thou alone art there. "T is still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled, Left to Decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. AND was thy home, pale withered thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy? Those suns in golden light, e'en now, Look o'er the Poet's lonely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow, May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. • "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas. Thy place is void-oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain. Another leaf ere now hath sprung, On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine? FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. CREATURE of air and light, Emblem of that which may not fade or die, To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky? With Silence and Decay, Fixed on the wreck of cold Mortality? The thoughts once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are goneWill the dust tell us where They that have burst the prison-house are flown? If thou wouldst trace their way- Who seeks the vanished bird By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?— Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell. Take the bright wings of morn! THE LOST PLEIAD. "Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." Byron. AND is there glory from the heavens departed? Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye. Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning— free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, And the red blood stained his crest; Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, That perish with a breeze. As roses die, when the blast is come, THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON. I LAY upon the solemn plain And by the funeral mound, 'T was silent where the free blood gushed, So many a voice had there been hushed, I slumbered on the lonely spot, I slumbered--but my rest was not For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose-the chainless deadAll armed they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed. 1 saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by Chased to the seas, without his shield I saw the Persian fly. I woke the sudden trumpet's blast THE TRUMPET. THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land, -A hundred hills have seen the brand A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have castAnd hark!-was that the sound of seas? -A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye- The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, The blast that wakes the dead? TROUBADOUR SONG. THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam, For the stormy fields of war The maid was left in a smiling home, And a sunny land afar. His voice was heard where javelin showers THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY THE Hall of Harps is lone this night, And I depart-my wound is deep, |