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And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear, — They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang To the anthems of the free!
The ocean-eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, —
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim-band; — Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
And the fiery heart of youth.
138 A Child's First Impression Of A Star.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
Freedom to worship God'
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. — Willis.
She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That looked so still and delicate above, Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the first golden mellowness, a star
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS.— Leigh Hunt.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness,
Sorrows I Ve had, severe ones
13S THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
Ah! first-born of thy mother,
To say, "He has departed," —
Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping!
Who say, —-" We've finished here."
THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. — Collins.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
But shepherd lads assemble here,
No withered witch shall here be seen,
The female fays shall haunt the green,
The redbreast oft at evening's hours
When howling winds, and beating rain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
Many a year is in its grave,