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The seasons came In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade ; The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased These potent elves. They steer'd the giant cloud Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storm Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings, The tempest ; and, anon, they rein'd its rage In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers 1-flown Before the wand of Science, and the hearths Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, Are passionless and silent!

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

J. PIERPOINT.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay and throw their spray
As they break along the shore:
Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day,
When the May-flower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;
And his rocks yet keep their wateh by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens look'd 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 dress'd
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 kind on that spot at 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.

THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

L. E. LANDON.

Ay, moralize on Love, and deem
Its life but as an April gleam, -
A thing of sunshine and of showers,
Of dying leaves and falling flowers.
Who would not bear the darkest sphere
That such a rainbow comes to cheer ?
Ay, turn and wail above the tomb,
Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom ;
And deem it quite enough to say, --
Thus Beauty and thus Love decay.
But must I look upon this spot
With feelings thy cold heart has not,
Those gentle thoughts that consecrate,
Even while they weep, the Lover's fate?
I think upon the star-lit hour,
When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower,
And blush'd and smiled the tale to hear,
Pour’d from her dark-eyed cavalier ;
And yet, I too must moralize,
Albeit with gentler sympathies,
Of all my own fond heart can tell
Of love's despair, and love's farewell,-
Its many miseries ;~its tears
Like lava, not like dew ;-its fears,
That make hope painful ;-then its trust,
So often trampled in the dust ;-
Neglected, blighted, and betray'il,
A sorrow and a mockery made !

Then change and adverse fortune, all
That binds and keeps sweet Love in thrall.
Oh, surely, surely, it were best
To be just for one moment bless'd;
Just gaze upon one worship'd eye,
Just know yourself beloved--and die !

CONSUMPTION.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.

01 there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose ;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays,
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through

The snow of her pale and tender cheek ;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit that longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path, And all the endearments that pleasure hath Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song The maiden may trip in the dance along, And think of the passing moment, that lies, Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, And yield to the present, that charms around With all that is lovely in sight and sound, Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, And the music that steals to the bosom's core, And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er With a few big drops, that are soon repress’d, For short is the stay of grief in her breast ; In this enliven'd and gladsome hour The spirit may burn with a brighter power ; But dearer the calm and quiet day, When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,

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