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MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.

BY RICHARD ALSOP.

BEFORE the splendors of thy high renown,
How fade the glow-worm lustres of a crown !
How sink, diminish'd, in that radiance lost,
The glare of conquest, and of power the boast !
Let Greece her Alexander's deeds proclaim,
Or Cæsar's triumphs gild the Roman name ;
Stript of the dazzling glare around them cast,
Shrinks at their crimes humanity aghast ;
With equal claim to honor's glorious meed,
See Attila his course of havoc lead ;
O'er Asia's realm, in one vast ruin hurl'd,
See furious Zinges' bloody flag unfurl'd.
On base far different from the conqueror's claim,
Rests the unsullied column of thy fame ;
His on the graves of millions proudly based,
With blood cemented and with tears defaced ;
Thine on a nation's welfare fixed sublime,
By freedom strengthen'd, and revered by time;
He, as the comet whose portentous light
Spreads baleful splendor o'er the glooms of night,
With dire amazement chills the startled breast,
While storms and earthquakes dread its course attest;
And nature trembles, lest in chaos hurld
Should sink the tottering fragment of the world ;
Thine, like the sun, whose kind, propitious ray,
Opes the glad morn, and lights the fields of day,
Dispels the wintry storm, the chilling rain,
With rich abundance clothes the fertile plain,
Gives all creation to rejoice around,
And light and life extends, o'er nature's utmost bound
Though shone thy life a model bright of praise,
Not less the example bright thy death portrays;
When, plunged in deepest woe around thy bed,
Each eye was fix'd, despairing sunk each head,
While nature struggled with extremest pain,
And scarce could life's last lingering powers retain ;
In that dread moment, awfully serene,
No trace of suffering marked thy placid mien,
No groan, no murmuring plaint escaped thy tongue ;
No longing shadows o'er thy hrow were hung ;
But, calm in Christian hope, undamp'd with fear,
Thou sawst the high reward of virtue near.
On that bright meed, in surest trust reposed,
As thy firm hand thine eyes expiring closed,
Pleased, to the will of Heaven resign’d thy breath,
And smiled, as nature's struggles closed in death.

THE MAYFLOWER.

BY E. EVERETT.

METHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; and now, driven in fury before the raging tempest, in their scarcely sea-worthy vessel. The awfal voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening weight against the staggering vessel.

I see them escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and

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exhausted from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers ? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months they were all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the boundaries of New England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter storm, beating upon the houseless head of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of the blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollections of the loved and left, beyond the sea ? was it some or all of them united that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible, that neither of these causes, that all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled so glorious !

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

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 rolld that day

When the Mayflower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.
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

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