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 heart is in verdure dress'd,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
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 star 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.

JOHN PIERPOINT.

SECTION V.

F

ALL through the night a storm had raged,
And woods were tossed and torn,
And little David going to work
Found treasured prize at morn.

A wool-lined nest, with birdlings fair,
All scattered on the grass;
He softly gathered up the spoil;
He could not look and pass.

He saw no sign of parent-birds,
And knew they had no power
To lift to branch the luckless nest,
Struck down in evil hour.

He had been taught by mother good
To do no cruel thing ;

To take no nest from off the trees,
Or home the eggs to bring.

He fed them all throughout the day

In pauses of his task ;

And when at night he reached his home
Few questions did she ask.

He told his tale, and great delight

For many days to all,

To feed the birds, which now began

To answer to their call.

And when at length they all could fly,

Young David set them free;

Yet often some of them return

And sit upon the tree

That grows beside the cottage door,
Where often they are fed;

In Winter in-doors they will come
Like little Robin-red.

A. H. J.

SPRING SONG.

THE swift is wheeling and gleaming,
The brook is brown in its bed,
Rain from the cloud is streaming,

And the bow bends overhead :

The charm of the Winter is broken! the last of the spell is said!