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314

MISS F. M. CAULKINS.

Soft were its hues-'twas love's, 'twas beauty's own,
The favorite of the hall, the field, the bower;
A Rose in which a radiant spirit shone—

Not the frail queen of thorn, and leaf, and flower.

A graft it was from Sharon's beauteous Rose,
Nursed with the gentlest dews of Palestine:
A mind, a heart, a glory, a repose,

Beamed from its depths and showed the root divine.

Rude storms, and persecution's deadly hail,

Beat on its head, yet lovelier it became :

So oaks grow strong while wrestling with the gale;
So glows the molten silver in the flame.

The ripening blossom opened rich and fair,

And filled with sweetness all the winds around;
A mail-clad warrior, struck with charms so rare,
This Rose of beauty to his bosom bound.

I saw it on the Mayflower's sacred floor,

Beneath the banner "God with us," recline:
That deck the sifted wheat of kingdoms bore,
There in its embryo lay New England's vine.

Behold the group: the parting pang is past;
They launch their lonely fortunes on the sea;
Back to the land the soul's last fetters cast,

And with the free winds join their anthems free.

ROSE STANDISH.

Freedom, the Bible, virtue, faith, and prayer
Embarked with them and daily sate beside;
While unseen angels strengthened them to bear,
And God's own finger was their wondrous guide.

Then did our ROSE, o'er famine, grief and care,
Cast its bright flush, its incense sweet diffuse;
The warrior by whose side it flourished fair,
Was all enveloped with its beauteous hues.

Long on the dreary ocean doomed to roam,
New sweets, new beauties still its leaves disclose;
Till in this late-found world, the pilgrim's home,
It fixed its root, our lovely Plymouth Rose.

Death found it there, and cut the slender stem:
It fell to earth; yet still it lives, it glows;
For Christ hath set it in his diadem,

And changed to fadeless Amaranth our Rose.

315

The Opening Wear.

ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,

Shelley.

Come and sigh, come and weep!

Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wail aloud

For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year:-be calm and mild,

Trembling hours; she will arise

With new love within her eyes.

THE THRUSH.

January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps-but, O ye hours!

Follow with May's fairest flowers.

317

SING

The Thrush.

Burns.

ING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the Orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll

share.

The First of January.

COME, melancholy moralizer, come!

Southey.

Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;

With me engarland now

The sepulchre of Time.

Come moralizer, to the funeral song!

I

pour the dirge of the departed days;

For well the funeral song

Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this dayThis consecrated day

To joy and merriment.

Mortal! while Fortune, with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,

Whilst her unclouded sun

Illumes thy Summer day;—