Then make the deeds, whose splendours round it glow,
The exemplar whence thy virtuous actions flow.
Wouldst thou those high sublime achievements learn?
To History's proudest, brightest volumes turn.
Whate'er of goodness God to man imparts-
Whate'er of greatness dwells in human hearts—
And all of wisdom that exalts the mind,
In Washington harmoniously combined.
He waked to life on Freedom's chosen shore,
And early caught her flame, and drank her lore.
When, thundering o'er the ocean's gloomy waves,
Oppression came to make Columbians slaves,
He grasp'd the sword, and, rising in his might,
Call'd on her sons, and march'd to glorious fight.
Back roll'd the invading blast, and Victory's peal
Proclaim'd the power that edged his flaming steel.
Then was employed his unambitious mind
To quell the feuds the conflict left behind :
And, as in battle, he, in council great,
Became the guardian of the rising state.
His country is the page of his renown,
And bliss eternal his rewarding crown.

264

NEW ENGLAND.

BY PERCIVAL.

HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;

The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,

A fearless host;

No slave is here-our unchain'd feet
Walk freely, as the waves that beat
Our coast.

Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;

They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;

With hearts unbent, high, steady, brave,
They sternly bore

Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar.

Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height;

And fearless stemm'd the invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood,
In desperate fight;

O! 'twas a proud, exulting day!
For even our fallen fortunes lay

In light.

There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;

The home, the port of Liberty

Thou hast been, and shall ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;

And, rising from the hardy stock,

Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And Slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppress'd-

All who the wreath of Freedom twine,
Beneath the shadow of their vine,
Are bless'd.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home; and leant on Heaven
Our hand.

265

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

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 May-Flower 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-saint'd 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 fied:

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.

266 SONNET ON THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR IN AMERICA.

BY DAVID HUMPHREYS.

WHEN civil war awaked his wrathful fire,
I saw the Britons' burnings stain the sky;
I saw the combat rage with ruthless ire-
Weltering in gore the dead and dying lie.

How devastation crimson'd on my eye,
When swoon'd the frighten'd maid; the matron fled,
And wept her missing child with thrilling cry;
Old men on staffs, and sick men, from their bed
Crept, while the foe the conflagration sped!

So broods, in upper skies, that tempest dire, Whence fiercer heat these elements shall warm: What time in robes of blood, and locks of fire, The exterminating angel's awful form

Blows the grave-rending blast, and guides the reddening storm.

267 SONNET ON THE DEATH OF

WASHINGTON.

BY DAVID HUMPHREYS.

HARK, friends! what sobs of sorrow-moans of grief,
On every gale, through every region spread!
Hark! how the western world bewails our chief,
Great Washington-his country's father-dead!

Our living light expiring with his breath,
His bright example still illumes our way