Puslapio vaizdai
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And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

TO SENECA LAKE.

Ox 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.

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

THE LILY.

I HAD found out a sweet green spot, Where a lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturb'd it not, But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom
When the day was dark and chill ;

It smiled, like a star in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell, And watch'd it many a day :

The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell, Grew faint and dim, then droop'd and fell And the flower had flown away.

I look'd where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS.

HERE rest the great and good-here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre-green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history, than pillar'd piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal

Their greatness. It is round them, and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued, these, though mute
As feeling ever is when deepest,-these
Are monuments more lasting, than the fanes
Rear'd to the kings and demigods of old.

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs

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There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Call'd them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself

To the astonish'd gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back
Broken and cowed. Let these greens elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature, and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallow'd day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears-here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty, Nature gives,
And they have render'd ours-perpetually.

JOHN PIERPONT.

INDEPENDENCE.

DAY of glory! welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneel'd,
On the height's where squadron's wheel'd,
When a tyrant's thunder peal'd,
O'er the trembling seas.

God of armies! did thy "stars
In their courses" smite his cars,

Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn,

Who for freedom died.

God of peace!-whose spirit fills
All the echoes of our hills,
All the murmurs of our rills,
Now the storm is o'er;
O, let freemen be our sons;
And let future Washingtons
Rise, to lead their valiant ones,
Till there 's war no more.

By the patriot's hallow'd rest,
By the warrior's gory breast,
Never let our graves be press'd

By a despot's throne;
By the pilgrim's toil and cares,
By their battles and their prayers,
By their ashes,-let our heirs
Bow to thee alone.

EXTRACT FROM THE AIRS OF PALESTINE.

ON Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, Rolling his chrystal tide through classic vales, Alone, at night,-the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen :-he sees her image on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest, Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rests her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen! How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.

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
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 May-Flower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

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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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