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 Mayflower 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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,-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 dress'd; Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

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TO SENECA LAKE.

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 fled;

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With their 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 Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

TO SENECA LAKE.

BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

ON thy fair bosom, silver lake,

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

RED JACKET.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

Oh! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er,

RED JACKET,

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS.

BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her PIONEER of mind,

A wanderer now in other climes, has proven
His love for the young land he left behind;

And throned her in the Senate Hall of Nations,
Robed like the deluge-rainbow, heaven-wrought,
Magnificent as his own mind's creations,

And beautiful as its green world of thought.

And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted
As law-authority-it passed nem. con.—
He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted,
The most enlighten'd people ever known.

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RED JACKET.

That all our week is happy as a Sunday

In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh: And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, There's not a bailiff nor an epitaph.

And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner,
We shall export our poetry and wine;

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner,
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line.

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora,
Gazing as I, upon thy portrait now,

In all its medall'd, fringed, and beaded glory,
Its eyes' dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow-

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic,
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings;
Well might he boast that we, the Democratic,
Outrival Europe-even in our kings.

For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree,
But that the forest tribes have bent for ages,
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee.

Thy name is princely, though no poet's magic
Could make RED JACKET grace an English rhyme,
Unless he had a genius for the tragic,

And introduced it in a pantomime ;

Yet it is music in the language spoken

Of thine own land; and on her herald-roll,

As nobly fought for, and as proud a token
AS CŒUR DE LION's, of a warrior's soul,

RED JACKET.

Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That metal pale, as diamonds the dark mine,

And George the Fourth wore in the dance at Brighton A more becoming evening dress than thine;

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather,
And fitted for thy couch on field and flood,
As Rob Roy's tartans for the Highland heather,
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood.

Is strength a monarch's merit? (like a whaler's)
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth's first kings-the Argo's gallant sailors,
Heroes in history, and gods in song.

Is eloquence? Her spell is thine, that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;
And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches-
The secret of their mastery-they are short.

Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed,
But the love-legends of thy manhood's years,
And she who perish'd, young and broken-hearted,
Are-but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears.

The monarch mind-the mystery of commanding,
The godlike power, the art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, bending,
The hearts of millions till they move as one;

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded
The road to death as to a festival;

And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded
With banner-folds of glory their dark pall,

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