Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at New Haven.-CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE. O, WHERE are they, whose all that earth could give, Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared; Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb? Of all that parted virtue felt and did! Yet powerless man revolts at ruin's reign; Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die; My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled. The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERPONT. THE pilgrim fathers-where are they? When the sea around was black with storms, The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep, And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, The pilgrim exile-sainted name! Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night Still lies where he laid his houseless head;- The pilgrim fathers are at rest: When Summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, The pilgrim spirit has not fled: And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 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. Song of the Pilgrims.-T. C. UPHAM. THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail, And, bounding with the wave and wind, Homes, and all we loved before. The deep may dash, the winds may blow, From that shore we'll speed us fast. For we would rather never be, O, see what wonders meet our eyes! Here, at length, our feet shall rest, As long as yonder firs shall spread Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,— Shall those cliffs and mountains be Now to the King of kings we'll raise More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, Dedication Hymn.-N. P. WILLIS. THE perfect world by Adam trod His fiat laid the corner stone, And heaved its pillars, one by one. He hung its starry roof on high- He spread its pavement, green and bright, The mountains in their places stood- Lord, 'tis not ours to make the sea, Extract from a Poem written on reading an Account of the Opinions of a Deaf and Dumb Child, before she had received Instruction. She was afraid of the Sun, Moon, and Stars.-HILLHOUSE. AND didst thou fear the queen of night, Poor mute and musing child? She who, with pure and silver light, Yet her the savage marks serene, Her the polar natives bless, Bowing low in gentleness, To bathe with liquid beams their rayless night: Her the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps, Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,.. Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps E'en the lost maniac loves her light, Uttering to her, with fixed eye, Wild symphonies, he knows not why. Sad was thy fate, my child, to see, In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee. Being of lonely thought, the world to thee Was a deep maze, and all things moving on In darkness and in mystery. But He, Who made these beauteous forms that fade anon, O, snatched from ignorance and pain, Forever bless the hands that burst thy chain, Though from thy guarded lips may press Her language in the eye, Her voice of harmony, a life of praise, Well understood by Him who notes our searching ways. The tomb shall burst thy fetters. Death sublime Shall bear away the seal of time, So long in wo bewailed! Thou, who no melody of earth hast known, Nor chirp of birds, their wind-rocked cell that rear, Nor waters murmuring lone, Nor organ's solemn peal, nor viol clear, Nor warbling breath of man, that joins the hymning sphereCan speech of mortals tell What tides of bliss shall swell, If the first summons to thy wakened ear Should be the plaudits of thy Savior's love, The full, enraptured choir of the redeemed above? The Land of the Blest.-W. O. B. PEABODY. O, WHEN the hours of life are past, |