TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

From seeds they sowed with weeping

Our richest harvests rise;

We still the fruits are reaping

Of Pilgrim enterprise.

Then, grateful, we to them will pay

The debt of fame we owe,

Who planted here the tree of life,
Two hundred years ago.

As comes this period yearly,
Around our cheerful fires
We'll think and tell how dearly
Our comforts cost our sires;
For them will wake the votive song,
And bid the canvas glow,

Who fixed the home of freedom here,

Two hundred years ago.

JAMES FLINT.

77

HYMN.

SUNG AT THE CELEBRATION OF 1824.

HOLY spot, where glowing choirs
Oft have wakened grateful lyres,
Oft have kindled grateful fires,
O'er the Pilgrim's grave!

Once again we press the shore,
Where our Fathers sternly swore

Ocean should forget to roar

Ere they would be slaves.

Hail the dawn when Freedom's rays
Hushed Columbia's icy face;

Sweeter strains arise of praise

Than from Memnon's harp.

Hail the spot, our Sires' retreat;

Hail the waves that round them beat;

Hail the Rock that bore their feet,

When their wanderings ceased!

Fancy paints in yonder bay

The bark that broke the Pilgrim's way;
The Cradle where our nation lay
In her infant days.

See the boat approach the land,
Freighted with the pious band;
See, they kneel upon the strand,
Warm with gratitude.

Vent your fury, wind and flood,
Freedom's bark is safely moored;
Freedom's sons, with hearts assured,
Now their work begin.

Gloomy scenes await the brave,

Savage foes around them rave;
Carver fills an early grave,

Hope well-nigh expires.

But to Faith's reluming eye
Visions bright in prospect lie;
E'en a triumph 't were to die,
If in conscience free.

Still above the sacred dead

Future crowds shall yearly tread ;

Blooming youth and hoary head,
Meet around their urns.

Oft shall Genius' fluent tongue
Trace the story, swell the song;
Oft amidst the listening throng
Thrill the feeling soul.

Ye who 've sprung from noble blood,
Men who spurned the tyrant's rod,
Men who bowed to none but God,
Here your vows repeat:

"By their pious shades we swear,
By their toils and perils here,
We will guard with jealous care
Law and Liberty."

WILLIAM P. LUNT.

ODE.

NOT all the loftiest memories

That rose on earlier days, When, with the trump and sacrifice, And swelling pomp of praise, Men gathered to their pillared halls, 'Mid garlands, joy, and wine, Το gaze on heroes round the walls, In marble made divine,

And pour the deep libation there
To victors passed away;

Or minds whose wonders, rich and rare,
Poured splendor on their day, -

Not all in finer hearts can vie

With those that summon here, To lift, on Freedom's clarion high, The anthem of our cheer!

We sing a nobler race than passed
In ancient times to glory: