-We bring you a gift from your native skies, The crystal gem from affection's eyes, Which tenderly trickles, when dear ones part, We have wrapp'd it close in the rose's heart: We are charg'd with a mother's benison kiss, Will you welcome us in, to your halls, for this? -We are chill'd with the cold of our wintry way, Our message is done, we must fade away : Let us die on your breast, and our prayer shall be For an Eden-wreath to thy love and thee.

THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND.

How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main!
Amid the heavy billows now she seems

A toiling atom; then, from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels
Half wreck'd through gulfs profound.

Moons wax and wane,

But still that patient traveller treads the deep.

-I see an ice-bound coast toward which she steers <

With such a tardy movement, that it seems

Stern Winter's hand hath turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd his victory on her slippery shrouds.
-They land! they land! not like the Genoese
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come
From their long prison, hardy forms that brave
The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair,
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave,
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,

*

And savage men, who through the thickets peer

With vengeful arrow.

What could lure their steps

To this drear desert?

Ask of him who left

His father's home to roam through Haran's wild,
Distrusting not the guide who call'd him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as ocean's sands.

Hath spread her parting sail.

But yon lone bark

They crowd the strand,

Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last, frail link,
Binding to man, and habitable earth,

Is sever'd? Can ye tell what pangs were there,
With keen regrets, what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones?

Long, with straining eye,

They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek

Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness

Sank down into their bosoms? No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!

Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,
A loftiness, to face a world in arms,

To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay,
On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood

Of slain affections, should they rise between

The soul and God.

Oh ye, who proudly boast,

In your free veins, the blood of sires like these,

Guard well their lineaments.

Dread lest ye lose

Should Mammon cling

Their likeness in your sons.

Too close around your heart, or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue, or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth-rock, and where they knelt
Kneel, and renew the vow they breath'd to God.

THE FALL OF THE ROSE.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR YOUNG LADY.

THE Rose was saturate with dew,
As fresh as Nature sends,

And with as bright a sun-beam too,

As Earth's brief summer lends

;

Yet still it long'd with an ardent flame

For that blessed sphere whence its blushes came,

Gazing up to that cloudless sky

Where Beauty and Love, with their glorious eye Ripen, and ripen, but never die.

Its damask lip to the turf was prest,

And tears like rain-drops fell,

When it sank from the stalk and the florist's breast

That had shelter'd it long, and well,—

And its fragrance fled

From the garden-bed,

Where it lifted its queenly crown;

Yet a spirit-sigh

From the realms on high

To the mourner's heart came down.