*

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM

FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tost:

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and water o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd 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;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear,—

They shook the depths of the desert's 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 soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-
This 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 unstain'd what there they found

Freedom to worship God"!

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,

And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours,

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers,
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove,
And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone?—can we think it, while thou are there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?

Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free

And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;.
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine.

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and horne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

ON A MONUMENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT DAUGHTER OF SIR THOMAS ACKLAND.

THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child?
-When the fawn awakes 'midst the fore st wild?
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn,.
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?
-Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes;
Mournful though sweet, is thy rest to see-
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark-
Grief, with vain passionate tears, hath wet

The hair shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest

Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;

And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one-that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly! *

Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough,
-Oh! for the world where thy home is now!

How may we love but in doubt and fear,

How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

* A butterfly, as if fluttering on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair,
(Fam'd were its tresses in Provençal song,)
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. -A child's light hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,

Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace. -
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's-on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
-These may be dreams-but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame, and not with tears?-she fell!
That mother left that child-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply, not without a sigh—
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no ! it could not thus have been,
For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in gilt the spendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently.-A shadow o'er his halls

Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls,
The warder's horn hung mute;-meantime the child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smil'd,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well she knew
Her mother's tale !-Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have lingered; flush'd her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,

Ev'n to the Spring's glad voice.-Her own was low,
And plaintive-oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit.—Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and Age has done with tears,
But Youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days;
And thus it was with her.-A mournful sight
In one so fair; for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still, and meek,
Still that fond child's—and oh ! the brow above,
So pale and pure ! so form'd for holy love

Το gaze upon in silence! but she felt

That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given

Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven
To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn,

With alms before her castle-gate she stood,

'Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,

A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers-a gaze that all her spirit shook ;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years

From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest
The ground they trod-then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out, "Oh! undefiled!
I am thy mother !-spurn me not, my child!"

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
O'er her stain'd memory, when the happy slept,
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon pictured smile of other days;

But never breath'd in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish of surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank 'twas but a moment-yet too much