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26

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear,-
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom,

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea !
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd

This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,

Amidst that pilgrim-band-
Why had they come to wither there

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

27

What sought they thus afar ?

Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

- They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod !
They have left unstain'd what there they found-

Freedom to worship God!

[ These glorious verses will find an echo in the breast of every true descendant of the Pilgrims; and give the name of their authoress a place in many

hearts. She has laid our community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every one must feel the sublimity and poetical truth, with which she has conceived the scene presented, and the inspiration of that deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the pealing of an organ. Ed.]

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother with her first-born thence
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple-service ;-by the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoic’d to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paus’d, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chas'd the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's rep
As at a red flower's heart.—And where a fount
Lay like a twilight-star ’midst palmy shades,

Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd,
The Earth’s One Sanctuary—and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Wand to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear
Turn’d from the white-rob’d priest, and round her

arm

Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of Nature then swell’d high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.—“ Alas,” she cried,

“ Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,

And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-

How shall I hence depart?

“ How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side ?

And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

“ And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath

parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn’d from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still

Went like a singing rill ?

“ Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn ; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As ʼmidst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

“ And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

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