Rose Standish.* Miss F. M. Caulkins. THE IE ROSE I sing sprung from no earthly mould, It bore no thorns, and in its bosom's fold No lurking worm or eating canker grew. * They who have seen Weir's picture of the Embarkation of the Pilgrims, recently suspended in the Capitol at Washington, will remember the beautiful countenance of Rose, the wife of Capt. Miles Standish. They belonged to that intrepid band of Puritans who left England for conscience' sake; and after residing awhile in Holland, came to America in the Mayflower, commenced the first settlement of New England, "And left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship God." This little colony landed at Plymouth, in Massachusetts, December 22d, 1620. Among the first victims to the hardships they experienced from cold, famine, and want of shelter on an inhospitable coast, was the beautiful Rose Standish. She died in January. Her husband is well known as the military champion of the infant colony. L. 314 MISS F. M. CAULKINS. Soft were its hues-'twas love's, 'twas beauty's own, Not the frail queen of thorn, and leaf, and flower. A graft it was from Sharon's beauteous Rose, Beamed from its depths and showed the root divine. Rude storms, and persecution's deadly hail, So oaks grow strong while wrestling with the gale; The ripening blossom opened rich and fair, And filled with sweetness all the winds around; I saw it on the Mayflower's sacred floor, Beneath the banner "God with us," recline: Behold the group: the parting pang is past; And with the free winds join their anthems free. ROSE STANDISH. Freedom, the Bible, virtue, faith, and prayer Then did our ROSE, o'er famine, grief and care, Was all enveloped with its beauteous hues. Long on the dreary ocean doomed to roam, Death found it there, and cut the slender stem: And changed to fadeless Amaranth our Rose. 315 The Opening Year. RPHAN hours, the year is dead, ORPHAN Shelley. Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours, smile instead, For the year is but asleep. As an earthquake rocks a corse So white Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the dead-cold year to-day; Solemn hours! wail aloud 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; March with grief doth howl and rave, Follow with May's fairest flowers. 317 The Thrush. Burns. ING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; SI 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! 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. |