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Should shine into the heart, with power
To drive its darker thoughts away.

The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now,
And not the later cares, whose trace

Is stamped so deeply on my brow;
What though those days return no more!
The sweet remembrance is not vain-
For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.

Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed-
But let me rest upon the hand,

And let me hear that gentle tread
Of her whose kindness long ago,

And still unworn away by years, Has made my weary eye-lids flow With grateful and admiring tears!

I go-but let no plaintive tone

The moment's grief of friendship tell;
And let no proud and graven stone
Say where the weary slumbers well;
A few short hours-and then for Heaven!
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss-

For who would mourn the warning given,
Which calls us from a world like this!

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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 pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;

And his rocks yet 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 an angel's wing, 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When Summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest,
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 it 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 holy stars by night.

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


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



THOU who scornest truths divine,
Say what joy, what hope is thine?
Is thy soul from sorrow free?
Is this world enough for thee?
No; for care corrodes thy heart.
Art thou willing to depart?
No; thy nature bids thee shrink



From the void abyss's brink.
Thou mayst laugh, in broad sunshine;
Scoff, when sparkles the red wine;
Thou must tremble, when deep night
Shuts the pageants from thy sight.
Morning comes, and thou blasphemest;
Yet another day thou deemest
Thine; but soon its light will wane;
Then thy warning comes again.
There's a morrow with no night—
Broad and blazing, endless light!
Should its dawn thy dreams o'ertake,
Better thou didst never wake!



THE flowers, the many flowers That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours,

Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew; They, to the summer air

No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield; Vainly, to bind her hair,

The village maiden seeks them in the field.

The breeze, the gentle breeze

That wandered like a frolic child at play,


Loitering mid blossomed trees,
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way,
No more adventuresome,

Its whispered love is to the violet given;
The boisterous North has come,

And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.

The brook, the limpid brook
That prattled of its coolness, as it went
Forth from its rocky nook,

Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,—
Its pleasant song is hushed ;—

The sun no more looks down upon its play ;-
Freely, where once it gushed,

The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.

The hours, the youthful hours,
When in the cool shade we were wont to lie,
Idling with fresh culled flowers,

In dreams that ne'er could know reality;-
Fond hours, but half enjoyed,


Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, And dear hopes were destroyed

Like buds that die before the noon of day.

Young life, young turbulent life,

If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, "T is lost mid folly's strife,—

O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force. Nor deem youth's buoyant hours

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