DEATH. Should shine into the heart, with power The bright, young thoughts of early days Is stamped so deeply on my brow; Let no impatient mourner stand And let me hear that gentle tread And still unworn away by years, Has made my weary eye-lids flow With grateful and admiring tears! I go-but let no plaintive tone The moment's grief of friendship tell; For who would mourn the warning given, 80 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. BY JOHN PIERPONT. THE pilgrim fathers—where are they? Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 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, 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;- INFIDELITY. The pilgrim fathers are at rest: And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, 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: 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, 81 Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. INFIDELITY. BY R. C. SANDS. THOU who scornest truths divine, 82 THE FUTURE. From the void abyss's brink. THE FUTURE. BY ANNA M. WELLS. THE flowers, the many flowers That all along the smiling valley grew, While the sun lay for hours, Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew; They, to the summer air No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield; Vainly, to bind her hair, The village maiden seeks them in the field. The breeze, the gentle breeze That wandered like a frolic child at play, THE FUTURE. Loitering mid blossomed trees, Its whispered love is to the violet given; And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven. The brook, the limpid brook Leaping with joy to be no longer pent,— The sun no more looks down upon its play ;- The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. The hours, the youthful hours, In dreams that ne'er could know reality;- 83 Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, And dear hopes were destroyed Like buds that die before the noon of day. Young life, young turbulent life, If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, "T is lost mid folly's strife,— O'erwhelmed, at length, by passion's curbless force. Nor deem youth's buoyant hours |