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 occan-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, Why had they come to wither there There was woman's fearless eye, LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 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! 27 They have left unstain'd what there they found- [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, Making its banks green gems along the wild, There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd, Turn'd from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide "Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me; "How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing By every place of flowers my course delaying "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, "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 'midst 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 |