When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart And with submissive love to count the flowers To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Something that faints not through the day's distress, And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last Into her mother's face, and wakening knew The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, Thus in life's evening, from her And had she come, To save her child? - E'en so- nor yet in vain ; Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark Not as the conqueror comes, Not with the roll of the stirring drums, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;· They shook the depths of the desert gloom 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 roar'd - Why had they come to wither there, There was woman's fearless eye, There was manhood's brow serenely high, What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? - Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found — BREATHINGS OF SPRING. WHAT Wak'st thou, Spring?-sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Ev'n as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet thee, Spring!—the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs running thro' the grass, And the bright waters — they too hear thy call, Makes melody, and in the forest deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers! But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring? Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art ;— Wherefore it should be thus; yet, rous'd by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back, With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that, from thy earthly track, Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes! gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breath'd by our lov'd ones there! THE SPELLS OF HOME. There blend the ties that strengthen Joy's visits when most brief. Bernard Barton. By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss, where thy childhood played; First looked in love to the summer sky; By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Holy and precious-oh! guard it well! By the sleepy ripple of the stream, By the shiver of the ivy-leaves To the wind of noon at thy casement eaves; By the gathering round the winter hearth, |