THE DEATH-DAY OF KOERNER

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand

Had thrilled to the name of his God alone
And his Fatherland;

And with all his glorious feelings yet

In their first glow,

Like a southern stream that no frost hath met

To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,

And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;

And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful-beautiful and bright,

In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,

With the sword, his bride!

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A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND

"His very heart athirst

To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possessed
With visions prompted by intense desire.
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more."-COWPER.

THE hollow dash of waves !-the ceaseless roar !— Silence, ye billows!-vex my soul no more.

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ;

Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,

They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?
Know ye it, brethren! where bowered it lies
Under the purple of southern skies?

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines

A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND

In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,

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And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening shades, Like shooting stars in the forest glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall

Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!—
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,

The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still-
I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell-
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray !

It is there!-down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams, And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!

Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,

To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way!

Give way!-the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND

"Look now abroad! Another race has filled
Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are filled.;
The land is full of harvests and green meads."-BRYANT.

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored 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;

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS

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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 soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roaredThis was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst the 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 unstained what there they found-
Freedom to worship God.