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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.



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.


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 qucen-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-where are they?
The waves that brought thèm 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.

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.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

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,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more...



-LIFE in itself, it life to all things gives:

For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives—
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;

And, grateful to its giver, tenders food

For the Soul's health, or, suffering change unblest,

Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:

As is the man, e' en so it bears its part,

And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.

Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall;
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.
-Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough,
Peck not alone; that bird below, as thou,

Is busy after food, and happy, too.

-They're gone! Both, pleased, away together flew.

And see we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where 'er thou tak❜st thy stand,

If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams,
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky,
And one, still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull, lonely, joyless Soul,-a dearth.


The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more-
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves-puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world:
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow-men? Why, then, he deems
"T is hate for hate :-as he, so each one seems.

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.



THE dead leaves strow the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers;

The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers
Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,
And Autumn, with her yellow hours,

On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree-

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