When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;-
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile-sainted name !—
The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—

But the Pilgrim-where is he?

The Pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When Summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,

Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled :

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.

"PASSING AWAY."

WA AS it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear

Like the silvery tones of a Fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,

To catch the music that comes from the shore?—
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,

Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a Fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear;
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear,
As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung
As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a Canary-bird swing);

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fulness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride ;-
"Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,
Was a little dimmed-as when Evening steals

Upon Noon's hot face: yet one couldn't but love her,
For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ;-
And she seemed in the same silver tone to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan:
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet, just as busily, swung she on ;

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone

From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay)—
"Passing away! passing away!"

Samuel Woodworth.

THE

BUCKET.

OW dear to this heart are the scenes of

How

When fond recollection presents them to view!—

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;

For often at noon, when returned from the field,

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure—
The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As Fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well!

Is

Richard Henry Dana.

IMMORTALITY.

this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love?

And doth Death cancel the great bond that holds

Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds,
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind-the Father of all thought—
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?—
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms