"Twas the fairy herself! but, alas, her blue

Still a pupil did ruefully lack;

And who shall describe the terrific surprise

eyes

That seized the Paint-King when, behold, he descries Not a speck of his palette of black!

"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground,

He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief

In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief

Whisk

away

from his sight with a bound.

"I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone;

Then, rising, the fairy, in ire,

With a touch of her finger, she loosened her zone
(While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan),
And she swelled to a column of fire.

Her spear now a thunder-bolt flashed in the air,
And sulphur the vault filled around;

She smote the grim monster: and now, by the hair
High lifting, she hurled him, in speechless despair,
Down the depths of the chasm profound.

Then over the picture thrice waving her spear,
"Come forth!" said the good Geraldine;
When, behold, from the canvas descending, appear
Fair Ellen, in person more lovely than e'er,

With grace more than ever divine!

AMERICA ΤΟ GREAT BRITAIN

ALL hail! thou noble land,

Our fathers' native soil!

Oh, stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright

The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Then let the world combine-

O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed

Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our MILTON told

How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the sun :
Yet, still, from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,

"We are one!"

John Pierpont.

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 rolled that day, When the May-Flower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
Το 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,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.

"PASSING AWAY."

WAS it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear

Like the silvery tones of a Fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,

To catch the music that comes from the shore?-
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,

Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a Fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear;
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear,
As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung
As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary-bird swing);