"ARE WE NOT EXILES HERE?"

And like the Deluge dove,

Outflown upon the world's cold sea we lie,
And all our dreams of love
In anguish die?

Nature no more endears;

Her blissful strains seem only breathed afar,
Nor mount, nor flower cheers,

Nor smiling star.

Familiar things grow strange;

Fond hopes like tendrils shooting to the air,
Through friendless being range,

To meet despair.

And, nursed by secret tears,

Rich but frail visions in the heart have birth,

Then must we summon back

Blest guides, who long ago have met the strife,

And left a radiant track

To mark their life.

Then must we look around

On heroes' deeds—the landmarks of the brave,

And hear their cheers resound

From off the wave.

Then must we turn from show,

Pleasure and fame, the phantom race of care,

And let our spirits flow

In earnest prayer.

165

THE MERRIMACK.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill;

Pour'd slantwise down the long defile, Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. I see the winding Powow fold

te

The green hill in its belt of gold,
And following down its wavy line,
Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bow'd to the freshening ocean gale;
No small boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,

But lies distinct and full in sight,
Beneath this gush of sunset light.
Centuries ago, that harbour-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,
And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
And yonder island's wave-smooth'd strand,
Saw the adventurer's tiny sail

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;

THE MERRIMACK.

And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,
As, brightly on the voyager's eye,
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
Breaking the dull continuous wood,"
The Merrimack roll'd down his flood;
Mingling that clear pellucid brook
Which channels vast Agioochook-
When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
The frozen fountains of the rock,

And more abundant waters given

From that pure lake, The Smile of Heaven,'
Tributes from vale and mountain side

With ocean's dark, eternal tide!

On yonder rocky cape, which braves
The stormy challenge of the waves,
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,
Planting upon the topmost crag
The staff of England's battle-flag;
And, while from out its heavy fold
Saint George's crimson cross unroll'd,
Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,
And weapons brandishing in air,
He gave to that lone promontory
The sweetest name in all his story;
Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters,
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters-
Who, when the chance of war had bound
The Moslem chain his limbs around,
Wreath'd o'er with silk that iron chain,
Sooth'd with her smiles his hours of pain,
And fondly to her youthful slave
A dearer gift than freedom gave.

167

168

THE MERRIMACK.

But look!-the yellow light no more
Streams down on wave and verdant shore;
And clearly on the calm air swells

The distant voice of twilight bells.
From Ocean's bosom, white and thin
The mists come slowly rolling in;
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
Amidst the sea-like vapour swim,
While yonder lonely coast-light set
Within its wave-wash'd minaret,
Half quench'd, a beamless star and pale,
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!

Vale of my fathers!—I have stood
Where Hudson roll'd his lordly flood;
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade
Along his frowning Palisade;
Look'd down the Appalachian peak

On Juniata's silver streak;
Have seen along his valley gleam
The Mohawk's softly-winding stream;
The setting sun, his axle red
Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be,
Thy wandering child look'd back to thee!
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,
The unforgotten swell and roar
Of waves on thy familiar shore ;
And seen amidst the curtain'd gloom
And quiet of my lonely room,
Thy sunset scenes before me pass;
As, in Agrippa's magic glass,

A WINTER MORNING.

The loved and lost arose to view,
Remember'd groves in greenness grew;
And, while the gazer lean'd to trace,
More near, some old familiar face,
He wept to find the vision flown—
A phantom and a dream alone!

A WINTER MORNING.

BY ANDREWS NORTON.

THE keen, clear air-the splendid sight-
We waken to a world of ice;
Where all things are enshrined in light,
As by some genie's quaint device.

"Tis winter's jubilee-this day

His stores their countless treasures yield; See how the diamond glances play,

In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field.

The cold, bare spot where late we ranged,
The naked woods are seen no more;
This earth to fairy land is changed,
With glittering silver sheeted o'er.

A shower of gems is strew'd around;

The flowers of winter, rich and rare; Rubies and sapphires deck the ground, The topaz, emerald, all are there.

The morning sun, with cloudless rays,

His powerless splendour round us streams; From crusted boughs, and twinkling sprays, Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams.

169