And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
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; And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;—
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trode.

They have left unstain'd what there they found Freedom to worship God.

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 wound-

Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."
Childe Harold.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no

more;

Is not this all a mystery?-Who shall say

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; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by; A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar— A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;

Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear-
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?
Why shakes the spirit thus ?-'tis mystery all!

Darkly we move-we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;

Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think

Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!

Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?—— So let us deem! and e'ep the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

THE DEPARTED.

"Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise--the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre."

AND shrink

ye

from the way

BRYANT.

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 burnThey have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence none return.

And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,

They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth's departed flowers,
And the masters of the mighty song
In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear;
Not from our path those flowers are gone—
We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough !— Ye have loved the light of many a smile That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks, that now are still;