THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE Pilgrim Fathers! where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore.

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,

When the "May Flower*" moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrims' sleep
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks still keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone:
As the light above, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile! sainted name!
The hill whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;

But the Pilgrim, where is he?

* The name of the ship that brought the first colonists to New England.

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;

When the 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,
With the brilliant stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have died,
And shall guard his ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay where the "May Flower" lay Shall foam and freeze no more.

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;

The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;

There with its waving blade of green,

The sea flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There, with a slight and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea :
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,

And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from its fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,

And the tempest howls in the darkened skies,
When robbers are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then far below in the peaceful sea

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
When the waters murmur tranquilly

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

PERCIVAL.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my mind,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from His "hollow hand,"

And hung His bow upon thine awful front;

And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,

"The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar?
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

BRAINERD.

FIDELITY.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eyes

Among the scattered rocks;

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake or fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed;

Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry.

Nor is there any one in sight

All round in hollow, or on height;

Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,

From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth the leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The
crag repeats the raven's croak,

In sympathy austere :

Thither the rainbow comes -the cloud
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams, and the sounding blast,
That if it could, would hurry past :
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;