Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,—
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore;
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side
The fisher look'd down through the silver tide,
And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,

And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.

THE SEA DIVER.

My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me,

Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.

My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kiss'd! When fades the evening's purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath

The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,

Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.

At night upon my storm-drench'd wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shatter'd thing
Had pass'd away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done, A ship, that had rode out the gale, Sunk down-without a signal gun,

And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,—
The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart,

The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea!

Peace that their relics there were laid

With no vain pride and pageantry.

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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 rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

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, that 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.