Not where thy soft winds played ;
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!

Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,

And bade man cease to weep.

Fade with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one house with glee :
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She kept each folded flower in sight :-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the nearth
Alas for love! if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

GERTRUDE VON DER WART.

Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, The breeze blew back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed;

All that she loved were there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold.

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried;

"My Rudolph, say not so;

This is no time to quit thy side;

Peace, peace! I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it? Mine is here;
I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honored love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessèd heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part:

But oh with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek:-
Love! Love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak,

The wind rose high; but with it rose
Her voice that he might hear.
Perchance that dark hour brought relief
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute-chords low
Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses prest
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!-

She had her meed-one smile in death,
And his worn spirit passed;

While even as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot;

And, weeping, blessed the God who gave Strength to forsake it not.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They the true-hearted came;

Not with the roll of stirring drums

And the trumpet that sings of fame ;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear :

They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amid the storm they sang,

Till the stars heard and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free:

The ocean-eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared;
Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair
Amid that Pilgrim band;—
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?-
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the sports of war?—
They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Yes, call that holy ground,

The soil where first they trod

They have left unstained what there they found,
Freedom to worship God.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices, by the source

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the bank in sunny garden bowers,

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thought be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hushed the woods, with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, linked with household words
While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love,

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o'er some lone burial ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling as of Spring around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard and holy! thou art even as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie.
Unseen a while they sleep; till, touched by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wan-
derer free.

SUNDAY IN ENGLAND.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way

Towards spire and tower, 'mid shadowy elms ascending,

Whence their sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day;

The halls from old heroic ages gray,

Pour their fair children forth, and hamlets low,

With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a free vernal stream.

I may not tread

With them those pathways-to the feverish bed

Of sickness bound; yet, O my God, I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

VOL. XIII.-10