Not thus, O God, to praise Thee,
Do we, their children, throng;
The temple's arch we raise Thee
Gives back our choral song.
Yet, on the winds that bore Thee
Their worship and their prayers,
May ours come up before Thee
From hearts as true as theirs!
What have we, Lord! to bind us
To this, the Pilgrims' shore?
Their hill of graves behind us,
Their watery way before,
The wintry surge that dashes
Against the rocks they trod,
Their memory, and their ashes:
Be Thou their guard, O God!
We would not, Holy Father!
Forsake this hallow'd spot
Till on that shore we gather
Where graves and griefs are not :
The shore where true devotion
Shall rear no pillar'd shrine,
And see no other ocean
Than that of love divine.
I CAN NOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes-he is not there!
I walk my parlour floor,
And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping tow'rd the hall
To give the boy a call;
And then bethink me that he is not there!
I thread the crowded street;
A satchel'd lad I meet,
With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair:
And, as he's running by,
Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!
I know his face is hid
Under the coffin-lid;
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;
Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!
I can not make him dead!
When passing by the bed,
So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek him inquiringly,
Before the thought comes that he is not there!
When, at the cool gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,
With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,
To Him who gave my boy;
Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!
When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,
I am in spirit praying
For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!
Not there!-Where, then, is he?
The form I used to see
Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,
Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;—he is not there!
He lives!-In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;
And on his angel brow,
I see it written-" Thou shalt see me there!"
Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER! Thy chastening rod
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,
Meeting at Thy right hand,.
"Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!
BREAK forth in song, ye trees!
As through your tops the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!
For, on its rushing wings,
To your cool shades and springs
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.
Ye sister hills! lay down
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;
These are the great of earth,-
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well-proved worth,
Firm hearts and true.
These are the living lights,
That from your bold green heights
Shall shine afar,
Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, tow'rd the flame
Come, as the Magi came
Tow'rd Bethlehem's Star.
Gone are those great and good
Who here in peril stood
And raised their hymn.'
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.
Ye temples, that to God
Rise where our fathers trod !
Guard well your trust:
The faith that dared the sea,
The truth that made them free,
Their cherish'd purity,
Their garner'd dust.
Thou high and holy One!
Whose care for sire and son
All nature fills,—
While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let Thy light repose
On these our hills!
Born at Scituate, Massachusetts, 1785-died 1842.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in his well.
RICHARD HENRY DANA.*
Born at Cambridge, Mass: 1787.
THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.
THOU little bird! thou dweller by the sea!
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry
O'er the waves dost thou fly?
O rather, bird! with me
Through the fair land rejoice!
Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by the beating storm at sea;
Thy cry is weak and scared,
As if thy mates had shared
The doom of us. Thy wail-
What does it bring to me?
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