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Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide ?
Who for freedom died.
God of peace !-whose spirit fills
Now the storm is o’er;
Till there 's war no more.
By the patriot's hallow'd rest,
By a despot's throne;
Bow to thee alone.
EXTRACT FROM THE AIRS OF PALESTINE.
On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows,
his eddying oar,
Hark!-t is a convent's bell :-its midnight chime. For music measures even the march of Time :O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise :-the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar;-a low and solemn swell, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. What melting song wakes the cold ear of night? A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, To charm the parting spirit of the dead. Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear, That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ;Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss, A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this?
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
The pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
As they break along the shore;
When the May-Flower moor'd below,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists, that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ; And his rocks yet kecp 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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
In the morning's flame burns now.
On the hill-side and the sea,
But the pilgrim--where is he?
The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When Summer 's throned on high,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
Looks kindly on that spot last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled:
It walks in noon's broad light;
With the holy stars, by night.
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Shall foam and freeze no more..
RICHARD H. DANA,
POWER OF THE SOUL IN INVESTING EXTERNAL CIRCUM
STANCES WITH THE HUE OF ITS OWN FEELINGS..
-Life in itself, it life to all things gives:
Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast Which gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.
THE DEAD LEAVES STROW THE FOREST WALK.
The dead leaves strow the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers ;
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers
And Autumn, with her yellow hours,
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell’d from yonder tree
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she ? Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love.
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there, The northern breeze that rustles by,
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair ;
No forest-iree stands stript and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead,
No mountain-top with sleety hair Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.
Go there with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
--I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone
See !—that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone.
THERE's beauty in the deep :The wave is bluer than the sky; And though the light shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid, And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine.
There 's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep :-
There's music in the deep.