The babe that lay on her cold breast

A rosebud dropp'd on drifted snowIts young hand in its father's press'd, Shall learn that she, who first caress'd Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.

And often shall he come alone,

When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shall say, "This was my mother's choice For her own grave: O, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine."

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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 roll'd that day
When the Mayflower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapp'd 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gave to the gale When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ;As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 dress'd, Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallow'd 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 their 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 Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN.

THE winds and waves were roaring;

The Pilgrims met for prayer;
And here, their God adoring,
They stood, in open air.
When breaking day they greeted,
And when its close was calm,
The leafless woods repeated

The music of their psalm.
Not thus, O God, to praise thee,
Do we, their children, throng;
The temple's arch we raise thee

Gives back our choral song. Yet, on the winds that bore thee

Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee

From hearts as true as theirs! What have we, Lord, to bind us

To this, the Pilgrims' shore!— Their hill of graves behind us,

Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes

Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes,Be thou their guard, O God! We would not, Holy Father,

Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather

Where graves and griefs are not; The shore where true devotion Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, And see no other ocean

Than that of love divine.

THE EXILE AT REST.

HIS falchion flash'd along the Nile;

His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, His eagle flag unroll'd-and froze. Here sleeps he now alone: not one

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,

Hath ever seen or sought his grave.

Here sleeps he now alone; the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Hath sunk; the nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.
He sleeps alone: the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his mortal form in death.
High is his couch; the ocean flood

Far, far below by storms is curl'd,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,

And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids

The world he awed to mourn him? No:

JERUSALEM, Jerusalem,

How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen!Could I have gazed upon the dome Above thy towers that swells,

And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells:

Could I have stood on Olivet,

Where once the Saviour trod,

And, from its height, look'd down upon
The city of our God;
For is it not, Almighty God,

Thy holy city still,

Though there thy prophets walk no more,That crowns Moriah's hill?

Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,

The streets of Salem now,

Nor are their voices lifted up

On Zion's sadden'd brow;
Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That kill'd them, came and wept.

But still the seed of ABRAHAM
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,

That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,

And Israel's GoD is worshipp'd yet
Where Zion lifts her head.

Yes; every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,

The holy name of ALLAH comes
From every minaret;

At every eve the mellow call

Floats on the quiet air,

"Lo, GoD is GOD! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!"

I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,

That OMAR's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;

But ABRAHAM's Gon is worshipp'd there Alike by age and youth,

And worshipp'd,-hopeth charity,

In spirit and in truth."

Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To sum who was, at once, her priest
And king,-MELCHISEDEK,

*

To this, when Egypt's ABRAHAM
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men

Have bow'd before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,

The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.

I would have mused, while night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,

Beneath those ancient olive trees

That grow in Kedron's vale,

Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,

Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the scythe of time.

The garden of Gethsemane

Those aged olive trees

Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer
Of Jesus, when in agony,

He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the MARYS stood,
Bewailing loud the Crucified,

As near him as they could,

I would have stood, till night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learn'd to bear my own.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,

And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,

And now thy cross is on thee laid-
The crescent is thy cross!

It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod

That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!

But round thy hill the spirits throng

Of all thy murder'd seers,

And voices that went up from it

Are ringing in my ears,

Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,

And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touch'd
Thy feet, gave up their dead :-
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,

HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD!

This name is now generally written IBRAHIM.

THE POWER OF MUSIC.*

HEAR yon poetic pilgrim† of the west Chant music's praise, and to her power attest; Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods, And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws; Who hangs the canvass where ATALA glows, On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded: Who, for the son of OUTALISSI, twines Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss That Time already sprinkles on the cross Raised o'er the grave where his young virgin sleeps, And Superstition o'er her victim weeps; Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, Among Scioto's monumental mounds; Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, To swell the mass that Time and Ruin throw O'er chalky bones that mouldering lie below, By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes, Lost in those towering tombs of other times; For, where no bard has cherished virtue's flame, No ashes sleep in the warm sun of fame. With sacred lore this traveller beguiles His weary way, while o'er him fancy smiles. Whether he kneels in venerable groves,

Or through the wide and green savanna roves, His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears The faintest breath of Idumea's airs.

Now he recalls the lamentable wail That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, A note for SATAN's and for HEROD's ear. Now on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes Along the valleys where his childhood stray'd, And round the temples where his fathers pray'd. How fondly then, from all but hope exiled, To Zion's wo recurs religion's child! He sees the tear of JUDAH's captive daughters Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters; While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, Wrapp'd in the mist that o'er the river hung, Felt but the breeze that wanton'd o'er the billow, And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow.

And could not music soothe the captive's wo? But should that harp be strung for JUDAH's foe? While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream,

Balanced between a revery and a dream, Backward he springs; and through his bounding

heart

Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thickens on his gums;
His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry;
A spark of hell lies burning on his eye:
While, like a vapour o'er his writhing rings.
Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings.
Soon as dumb fear removes her icy fingers
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,
From his soft flute throws music's air around,
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground.
See! as the plaintive melody is flung,
The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue;
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold;
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;

His neck is burnish'd with a glossier dye;
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.
Slowly the charm retires: with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides;
While music throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off in magic folds of sound.

OBSEQUIES OF SPURZHEIM.

STRANGER, there is bending o'er thee
Many an eye with sorrow wet;
All our stricken hearts deplore thee;
Who, that knew thee, can forget?
Who forgot that thou hast spoken?
Who, thine eye,-that noble frame?
But that golden bowl is broken,

In the greatness of thy fame.
Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither
On the spot where thou shalt rest;
"Tis in love we bear thee thither,

To thy mourning mother's breast. For the stores of science brought us, For the charm thy goodness gave To the lessons thou hast taught us, Can we give thee but a grave?

Nature's priest, how pure and fervent

Was thy worship at her shrine ! Friend of man, of God the servant,

Advocate of truths divine,Taught and charm'd as by no other

We have been, and hoped to be; But, while waiting round thee, brother, For thy light,-'tis dark with thee. Dark with thee?-No; thy Creator,

All whose creatures and whose laws Thou didst love, shall give thee greater Light than earth's, as earth withdraws To thy God, thy godlike spirit

Back we give, in filial trust;
Thy cold clay,-we grieve to bear it
To its chamber,-but we must.

THE SEAMAN'S BETHEL.*

THOU, who on the whirlwind ridest,
At whose word the thunder roars,
Who, in majesty, presidest

O'er the oceans and their shores;
From those shores, and from the oceans,
We, the children of the sea,
Come to pay thee our devotions,
And to give this house to thee.

When, for business on great waters,

We go down to sea in ships,
And our weeping wives and daughters
Hang, at parting, on our lips,
This, our Bethel, shall remind us,

That there's One who heareth prayer,
And that those we leave behind us
Are a faithful pastor's care.
Visions of our native highlands,

In our wave-rock'd dreams embalm'd,
Winds that come from spicy islands

When we long have lain becalm'd, Are not to our souls so pleasant

As the offerings we shall bring Hither, to the Omnipresent,

For the shadow of his wing.

When in port, each day that's holy,

To this house we'll press in throngs; When at sea, with spirit lowly,

We'll repeat its sacred songs. Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, Lose its flag behind the seas; Homeward bound, we'll greet with gladness Its first floating on the breeze. Homeward bound!-with deep emotion, We remember, Lord, that life Is a voyage upon an ocean,

Heaved by many a tempest's strife. Be thy statutes so engraven

On our hearts and minds, that we, Anchoring in Death's quiet haven,

All may make our home with thee.

THE SPARKLING BOWL.

THOU sparkling bowl! thou sparkling bowl! Though lips of bards thy brim may press, And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll,

And song and dance thy power confess,
I will not touch thee; for there clings
A scorpion to thy side, that stings!

Thou crystal glass! like Eden's tree,
Thy melted ruby tempts the eye,
And, as from that, there comes from thee

The voice, "Thou shalt not surely die."
I dare not lift thy liquid gem;—
A snake is twisted round thy stem!

*Written for the dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, ander the direction of the Boston Port Society, SeptemDer fourth, 1833.

Thou liquid fire! like that which glow'd On Melita's surf-beaten shore, Thou'st been upon my guests bestow'd,

But thou shalt warm my house no more.
For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls,
Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls!

What, though of gold the goblet be,
Emboss'd with branches of the vine,
Beneath whose burnish'd leaves we see

Such clusters as pour'd out the wine?
Among those leaves an adder hangs!
I fear him;-for I've felt his fangs.

The Hebrew, who the desert trod,
And felt the fiery serpent's bite,
Look'd up to that ordain'd of God,

And found that life was in the sight.
So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains.

Ye gracious clouds! ye deep, cold wells! Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip! Springs, that from earth's mysterious cells

Gush o'er your granite basin's lip! To you I look ;-your largess give, And I will drink of you, and live.

FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

DAY of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play

With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd,
On the heights where squadrons wheel'd,
When a tyrant's thunder peal'd

O'er the trembling seas.

GoD of armies! did thy "stars
In their courses" smite his cars,
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars

From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldiers' urn
Who for freedom died.

GoD of peace!-whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,

Now the storm is o'er ;-
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future WASHINGTONS
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there's war no more.

By the patriot's hallow'd rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,-
Never let our graves be press'd

By a despot's throne;

By the Pilgrims' toils and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,-let our heirs
Bow to thee alone.

MR. NORTON was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterward tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He

resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman.

Mr. NORTON is author of "The Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels," published, in an octavo volume, in 1837; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited rare scholarship and argumentative abilities. His poetical writings are not numerous.

For labouring Virtue's anxious toil,

For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh,
For Faith that marks the conqueror's spoil,
Heaven grants the recompense, to die.
How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor's flight;
Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears;
Whose course is short, unclouded, bright.

How cheerless were our lengthen'd way,

Did heaven's own light not break the gloom; Stream downward from eternal day,

And cast a glory round the tomb!

Then stay thy tears; the blest above

Have hail'd a spirit's heavenly birth; Sung a new song of joy and love,

And why should anguish reign on earth?

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT.

FAREWELL! before we meet again,

Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown, That lie in distant years of pain, I have to journey on alone;

To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, Perchance with joys thou canst not share; And when we both were wont to kneel,

To breathe alone the silent prayer;

But ne'er a deeper pang to know,
Than when I watch'd thy slow decay,
Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow,
And felt at last each hope give way.

But who the destined hour may tell,
That bids the loosen'd spirit fly?
E'en now this pulse's feverish swell
May warn me of mortality.

But chance what may, thou wilt no more
With sense and wit my hours beguile,
Inform with learning's various lore,

Or charm with friendship's kindest smile Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see,

All speak of hopes forever fled,

All have some tale to tell of thee.

I shall not, should misfortune lower,
Should friends desert, and life decline,
I shall not know thy soothing power,
Nor hear thee say, "My heart is thine."
If thou hadst lived, thy well-earn'd fame
Had bade my fading prospect bloom,
Had cast its lustre o'er my name,

And stood the guardian of my tomb.

Servant of Gon! thy ardent mind,

With lengthening years improving still, Striving, untired, to serve mankind,

Had thus perform'd thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given;

"T was thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to the blow;

With patient smile and steady eye,

To meet each pang that sickness gave,
And see with lingering step draw nigh
The form that pointed to the grave.
Servant of Gon! thou art not there;
Thy race of virtue is not run;
What blooms on earth of good anu fair.

Will ripen in another sun.

Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow

With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears?