Then the hunter turned away from that scene, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, THE SEA DIVER. My way is on the bright blue sea, Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kiss'd! When fades the evening's purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. Full many a fathom down beneath The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep. They rested by the coral throne, Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown At night upon my storm-drench'd wing, And when the wind and storm had done, A ship, that had rode out the gale, Sunk down-without a signal gun, And none was left to tell the tale. I saw the pomp of day depart,— The sailor's wasted corse went down. Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea! Peace that their relics there were laid With no vain pride and pageantry. JOHN PIERPONT. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 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to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 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 holy stars, by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, Till the waves of the bay, where the May-flower lay, |