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The mists, that wrapped 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, thit 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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.

ROMAN CATHOLIC CHANT.

BY 1. A. HILLHOUSE.

0, Holy Tieoin, call thy child;

Her spirit longs to be with thee;
For, threatening, lower those skies so mild,

Whose faithless day-star dawned for me.

From tears released to speedy rest,
From youthful dreams which all beguiled,

To quiet slumber on thy breast,
O, holy Virgin, call thy child.

Joy from my darkling soul is fled,
And haggard phantoms haunt me wild;

Despair assails, and Hope is dead:
0, holy Virgin, call thy child.

YOUR HEART IS A MUSIC-BOX, DEAREST!

BY MRS. OSGOOD.

Youe heart is a music-box, dearest!

With exquisite tunes at command,
Of melody sweetest and clearest,

If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,

At a single rude touch it would break.
Then, oh! be the magic key mine,

Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
And there's one little tune it can play,

That I fancy all others above—
You learned it of Cupid one day—

It begins with and ends with " I love!"
"I love!"

It begins with and ends with " I love!"

A PORTRAIT.

BY NATHAN C. BROOKS.

Theough the gazer's breast is stealing
A pure rapture sweet and wild;

While thy face, its charms revealing,
Fair as snowflakes undefiled,

Speaks a woman with the feeling
And the lightness of a child.

With thy locks like sunlight streaming,

Thou art beauty's self, fair one; With thy cheek in beauty beaming,

From high thoughts and feelings won; And thy lustrous eye outgleaming

A bright sabre in the sun.

As the bird in tropic bowers

Ever Waves its sportive wing, Mid the bright and balmy flowers, *

Without voice of sorrowing; ;•

So mid joy and smiles, thy hours?'

Flit, thou light and fairy thing.

May no cloud of earthly sorrow,

Shade thy brow or dim with tears Thy bright eye ; but may each morrow

Shed a rainbow o'er life's fears, And a milder radiance borrow

From the gentle flight of years. 4

NEW ENGLAND.

BY MKS. GILMAN.

Nkw England, New England, my home o'er the sea!
My heart, as I wander, turns fondly to thee;
For bright rests the sun on thy clear winding streams,
And soft o'er thy meadows the moon pours her beams.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea!

The wanderer's heart turns in fondness to thee.

Thy breezes are healthful, and clear are thy rills, And the harvest waves proudly and rich on thy hills. Thy maidens are fair, and thy yeoman are strong, And thy rivers run blithely thy valleys among.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea!

The wanderer's heart turns in fondness to thee.

There's home in New England, where dear ones of mine
Are thinking of me and the days of lang syne,
And blest be the hour when, my pilgrimage o'er,
I shall sit by the hearth-stone and leave it no more.

New England, New England, my home o'er the sea!

My heart, as I wander, turns fondly to thee.

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