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THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

BY JOHN PIERPOINT.

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 rolled that day,
When the May-flower moored below,

When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped 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 looked 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 dressed, Go stand on the hill where they lie.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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 at 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,

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

STANZAS

ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH.

LYRE.

BY THOMAS SHERIDAN.

"BRITANNIA rules the waves !"
Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves
Where Lough Swilly's billow raves,
And three hundred British graves
Taint the shore.

No voice of life was there!
'Tis the dead that raise that cry!
The dead, who raised no prayer
As they sunk in wild despair,
Chaunt in scorn that boastful air,
Where they lie.

T

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ON THE LOSS OF THE SALDANAH.

"Rule, Britannia," sung the crew,
When the stout Saldanah sailed;
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which in battle, to subdue,

Ne'er had failed.

Bright rose the laughing morn,
(That morn that sealed her doom,)
Dark and sad is her return,
And the storm-lights faintly burn,
As they toss upon her stern,

'Mid the gloom.

From the lonely beacon's height,
As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw their flashing light
Drive swift athwart the night;
Yet the wind was fair, and right
To the Sound.

But no mortal power shall now
That crew and vessel save;-
They are shrouded as they go
In a hurricane of snow,

And the track beneath her prow
Is their grave.

There are spirits of the deep,
Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep,
On rock, or mountain steep,
Or, 'mid thunder-clouds, that keep
The wrath of Heaven.

ON THE LOSS OF THE SALDANAH.

High the eddying mists are whirled,
As they rear their giant forms;
See! their tempest flag's unfurled,-
Fierce they sweep the prostrate world,
And the withering lightning's hurled
Through the storms.

O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commissioned watch to keep;
Down, down, with thundering roar,
The exulting demons pour.-

The Saldanah floats no more

O'er the deep!

The dread behest is past !--
All is silent as the grave;
One shriek was first and last-
Scarce a death-sob drunk the blast,

As sank her towering mast

Beneath the wave.

"Britannia rules the waves"-
O vain and impious boast!
Go mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He, who sinks or saves,

Scars the sands with countless graves
Round your coast.

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A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I SAW her in her morn of hope, in life's delicious spring,

A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the

wing;

Elate and joyous as the lark, when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky.

I see her yet so fancy deems-her soft, unbraided hair,

Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her forehead fair;

Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the willing smile that played,

In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's self had made!

And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her way,

Nor dreamed the flowers that round her bloomed would ever know decay ;

She had no winter in her note, but evermore would sing

(What darker season had she proved?) of spring-of only spring!

Alas, alas! that hopes like hers, so gentle and so bright,

The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should blight ;

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