But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone;
-There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?
There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed!

For the Roncesvalles' field is won,
There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
To chain her with their power.

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,
There slumber England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER.

Ir it be sad to speak of treasures gone,

Of sainted genius called too soon away, Of light, from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;— How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be, Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard? And that deep soul of gentleness and power,

Have we not felt its breath in every word,

How shall we mourn thee?-With a lofty trust, Our life's immortal birthright from above! With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,

And yet can weep!-for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, though for happies shores.

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed-
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,

Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed:
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won.
Praise for yet one more name with power en
dowed,

To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; Yet one more image, on the heart bestowed, To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from th dead,

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Called thy harvest-work to leave;
Pray!-ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun!
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain:
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the south, and the chesnut

flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,

Which tossed in the breeze with a play of lignt,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth was spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire
sky,

And had not a sound of mortality!

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains passed?

-Ye have looked on death since ye met me last!

Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace, She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,

And called out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,

Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair! -But I know of a land where there falls no blight, I shall find them there with their eyes of light!

chain,

They are sweeping on the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But ye!-ye are changed since ye met me last! There is something bright from your features passed!

There is that come over your brow and eye, Which speaks of a world where the flowers must

die!

-Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yetOh! what have ye looked on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!--and I see not

here

All whom I saw in the vanished year;

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 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 trod!

They have left unstained what there they foundFreedom to worship God!

[These glorious verses will find an echo in the breast of every true descendant of the Pilgrims; and give the name of their authoress a place in many hearts. She has laid our community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every one must feel the sublimity and poetical truth, with which she has conceived the scene presented, and the inspiration of that deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the pealing of an organ.]

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother with her first-born thence
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed
Unto the Temple-service;-by the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and
watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart.-And where a fount

| Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached,
The Earth's One Sanctuary—and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear
Turned from the white-robed priest, and round
her arm

Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.-" Alas," she cried,
"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late, along the mountains, at my side?
And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day
Turned from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, wearyhearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet

me,

When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet

me,

As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound
thee,

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?