Still, from his noonday height,

The sun looks down in light:
Along the trackless realms of space,

The stars still run their midnight race;

The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore
Still echoes to the same wild ocean's roar;-
But where the bristling night-wolf sprang
Upon his startled prey,
Where the fierce Indian's war-cry rang

Through many a bloody fray,
And where the stern old pilgrim pray'd

In solitude and gloom,
Where the bold patriot drew his blade,

And dared a patriot's doom,-
Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze
We lift our heads, a race of other days.

XXIII.

All gone! the wild beast's lair is trodden out;
Proud temples stand in beauty there;
Our children raise their merry shout

Where once the death-whoop vex'd the air. The pilgrim-seek yon ancient mound of graves, Beneath that chapel's holy shade;

Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves,
Who, who within that spot are laid:

The patriot-go, to Fame's proud mount repair;
The tardy pile, slow rising there,
With tongueless eloquence shall tell
Of them who for their country fell.

XXIV.

All gone! 't is ours, the goodly land-
Look round-the heritage behold;
Go forth-upon the mountains stand;
Then, if ye can, be cold.

See living vales by living waters bless'd;
Their wealth see earth's dark caverns yield;
See ocean roll, in glory dress'd.

For all a treasure, and round all a shield;
Hark to the shouts of praise
Rejoicing millions raise;
Gaze on the spires that rise
To point them to the skies,
Unfearing and unfear'd;

Then, if ye can, O, then forget

To whom ye owe the sacred debt—

The pilgrim race revered!

The men who set Faith's burning lights
Upon these everlasting heights,

To guide their children through the years of time;
The men that glorious law who taught,
Unshrinking liberty of thought,

And roused the nations with the truth sublime.

XXV.

Forget? No, never-ne'er shall die

Those names to memory dear;

I read the promise in cach eye That beams upon me here. Descendants of a twice-recorded race! Long may ye here your lofty lineage grace. "T is not for you home's tender tie

To rend, and brave the waste of waves; "Tis not for you to rouse and die, Or yield, and live a line of slaves.

The deeds of danger and of death are done: Upheld by inward power alone, Unhonour'd by the world's loud tongue, "T is yours to do unknown,

And then to die unsung.

To other days, to other men belong
The penman's plaudit, and the poet's song;
Enough for glory has been wrought;
By you be humbler praises sought;
In peace and truth life's journey run,
And keep unsullied what your fathers won.

XXVI.

Take then my prayer, ye dwellers of this spot!
Be yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot.
I plead not that ye bask

In the rank beams of vulgar fame;
To light your steps, I ask
A purer and a holier flame.
No bloated growth I supplicate for you,
No pining multitude, no pamper'd few;
"T is not alone to coffer gold,
Nor spreading borders to behold;
'Tis not fast-swelling crowds to win,
The refuse-ranks of want and sin.
This be the kind decree:
Be ye by goodness crown'd;
Revered, though not renown'd;

Poor, if Heaven will, but free!
Free from the tyrants of the hour,
The clans of wealth, the clans of power,
The coarse, cold scorners of their Gon;
Free from the taint of sin,

The leprosy that feeds within,
And free, in mercy, from the bigot's rod.

XXVII.

The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride,

Ye do not fear;

No conquest blade, in life-blood dyed,
Drops terror here,—

Let there not lurk a subtler snare,
For wisdom's footsteps to beware.
The shackle and the stake

Our fathers fled;

Ne'er may their children wake
A fouler wrath, a deeper dread;

Ne'er may the craft that fears the flesh to bind,
Lock its hard fetters on the mind;

Quench'd be the fiercer flame

That kindles with a name;

The pilgrim's faith, the pilgrim's zeal,
Let more than pilgrim kindness seal;
Be purity of life the test,

Leave to the heart, to heaven, the rest.

XXVIII.

So, when our children turn the page, To ask what triumphs mark'd our ageWhat we achieved to challenge praise, Through the long line of future daysThis let them read, and hence instruction draw "Here were the many bless'd,

Here found the virtues rest,

Faith link'd with Love, and Liberty with Law;

Here industry to comfort led;
Her book of light here learning spread;
Here the warm heart of youth
Was woo'd to temperance and to truth;
Here hoary age was found,
By wisdom and by reverence crown'd.
No great but guilty fame

Here kindled pride, that should have kindled shame;
These chose the better, happier part,
That pour'd its sunlight o'er the heart,

That crown'd their homes with peace and health, And weigh'd Heaven's smile beyond earth's wealth;

Far from the thorny paths of strife They stood, a living lesson to their race,

Rich in the charities of life,

Man in his strength, and woman in her grace; In purity and truth their pilgrim path they trod, And when they served their neighbour, felt they served their Gon."

XXIX.

This may not wake the poet's verse, This souls of fire may ne'er rehearse In crowd-delighting voice;

Yet o'er the record shall the patriot bend, His quiet praise the moralist shall lend, And all the good rejoice.

xxx.

This be our story, then, in that far day,
When others come their kindred debt to pay.
In that far day?-O, what shall be,
In this dominion of the free,

When we and ours have render'd up our trust,
And men unborn shall tread above our dust?
O, what shall be?-He, He alone
The dread response can make,
Who sitteth on the only throne

That time shall never shake:
Before whose all-beholding eyes
Ages sweep on, and empires sink and rise.
Then let the song, to Him begun,

To Him in reverence end;
Look down in love, Eternal One,

And Thy good cause defend;
Here, late and long, put forth thy hand,
To guard and guide the Pilgrim's land.

LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER.

YOUNG mother! what can feeble friendship say, To soothe the anguish of this mournful day? They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled, Know how the living sorrow for the dead; Each tutor'd voice, that seeks such grief to cheer, Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear; I've felt it all-alas! too well I know How vain all earthly power to hush thy wo! GoD cheer thee, childless mother! 'tis not given For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven.

I've felt it all-as thou art feeling now; Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow. I've sat and watch'd by dying beauty's bed, And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed; I've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face, And vainly tried some comfort there to trace; I've listen'd to the short and struggling breath; I've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death; Like thee, I've veil'd my head in speechless gloom, And laid my first-born in the silent tomb.

I SEE THEE STILL.

"I rock'd her in the cradle,

And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest.
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm
Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grew old.
The fond endearments of our earlier days
We keep alive in them, and when they die,
Our youthful joys we bury with them."

I SEE thee still:

Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee as of old:
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear:
In every scene to memory dear
I see thee still.

I see thee still,

In every hallow'd token round;
This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided,
These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee,
Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine, here didst thou read,
This picture, ah! yes, here, indeed,
I see thee still.

I see thee still:

Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favourite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watch'd thy sad decay;
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie,
Here, on this pillow, thou didst die:
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee, pale and cold,
I see thee still.

I see thee still:

Thou art not in the grave confined-
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my sister, 't is not thee
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thou to a fairer land art gone;
There, let me hope, my journey done.
To see thee still!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF M. S. C.

I KNEW that we must part-day after day, I saw the dread Destroyer win his way; That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell, As on my ear its prophet-warning fell; Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew, Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue, Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung, Each sweet "Good night" fell fainter from thy tongue;

I knew that we must part-no power could save Thy quiet goodness from an early grave;

Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they

cast,

Looking a sister's fondness to the last;

Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek, Thy voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak;All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart;

The shaft had struck-I knew that we must part.

And we have parted, MARY-thou art gone!
Gone in thine innocence, meek, suffering one.
Thy weary spirit breathed itself to sleep
So peacefully, it seem'd a sin to weep,
In those fond watchers who around thee stood,
And felt, even then, that Gon, even then, was good.
Like stars that struggle through the clouds of
night,

Thine eyes one moment caught a glorious light,
As if to thee, in that dread hour, 't were given
To know on earth what faith believes of heaven;
Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest,
Nor one, one pang the awful change confess'd.
Death stole in softness o'er that lovely face,
And touch'd each feature with a new-born grace;
On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay,
And told that life's poor cares had pass'd away.
In my last hour be Heaven so kind to me!
I ask no more than this-to die like thee.

But we have parted, MARY-thou art dead!
On its last resting-place I laid thy head,
Then by thy coffin-side knelt down, and took
A brother's farewell kiss and farewell look;
Those marble lips no kindred kiss return'd;
From those veil'd orbs no glance responsive burn'd;
Ah! then I felt that thou hadst pass'd away,
That the sweet face I gazed on was but clay;
And then came Memory, with her busy throng
Of tender images, forgotten long;

Years hurried back, and as they swiftly roll'd,
I saw thee, heard thee, as in days of old;
Sad and more sad each sacred feeling grew;
Manhood was moved, and Sorrow claim'd her due;
Thick, thick and fast the burning tear-drops started;
I turn'd away-and felt that we had parted.--
But not forever-in the silent tomb,
Where thou art laid, thy kindred shall find room;
A little while, a few short years of pain,
And, one by one, we'll come to thee again;
The kind old father shall seek out the place,
And rest with thee, the youngest of his race;
The dear, dear mother, bent with age and grief,
Shull lay her head by thine, in sweet relief;

Sister and brother, and that faithful friend,
True from the first, and tender to the end,-
All, all, in His good time, who placed us here,
To live, to love, to die, and disappear,
Shall come and make their quiet bed with thee,
Beneath the shadow of that spreading tree;
With thee to sleep through death's long, dream
less night,

With thee rise up and bless the morning light.

THE FAMILY MEETING*

WE are all here! Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is fill'd-we're all at home;
To-night let no cold stranger come:

It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away-the dead ones dear,
Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:
Some like a night-flash pass'd away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share-
We're not all here.

We are all here!

Even they-the dead-though dead, so dear
Fond Memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remember'd face appears!
We see them as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They're round us as they were of old-
We are all here.

We are all here! Father, mother, Sister, brother,

You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
O! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-al here!

* Written on the accidental meeting of all the surviving members of a family.

Gon of wisdom, Gon of might,
Father! dearest name of all,
Bow thy throne and bless our rite;
"Tis thy children on thee call.
Glorious ONE! look down from heaven,
Warm each heart and wake each vow;
Unto Thee this house is given;

With thy presence fill it now.

Fill it now! on every sout
Shed the incense of thy grace,
While our anthem-echoes roll
Round the consecrated place;
While thy holy page we read,

While the prayers Thou lovest asca 'd, While thy cause thy servants plead,— Fill this house, our Gon, our Friend.

Fill it now-O, fill it long!

So, when death shall call us home, Still to Thee, in many a throng,

May our children's children come. Bless them, Father, long and late,

Blot their sins, their sorrows dry;

Make this place to them the gate
Leading to thy courts on high.
There, when time shall be no more,
When the feuds of earth are past,
May the tribes of every shore
Congregate in peace at last!
Then to Thee, thou ONE all-wise,
Shall the gather'd millions sing,
Till the arches of the skies
With their hallelujahs ring.

TO MY CIGAR.

YES, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;

Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes lor.g,
My years are sooner pass'd?

I would reply, with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;

Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.

Thou'rt like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,

The odour of whose virtues lives
When he has passed away.

When, in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,

I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

A while, like thee, earth's masters burn,
And smoke and fume around,

And then, like thee, to ashes turn,

And mingle with the ground. Life's but a leaf adroitly roll'd,

And time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe
One common doom is pass'd:
Sweet nature's works, the swelling globa
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?→→
A little moving heap,

That soon like thee to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.