Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies, Farewell! Heaven smile propitious on thy course, New England.—J. G. PERCIVAL. HAIL to the land whereon we tread, The sepulchre of mighty dead, No slave is here; our unchained feet Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave They left behind the coward slave Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood, O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, In light. There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, And, rising from thy hardy stock, All, who the wreath of Freedom twine We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er, They still shall find our lives are given The Damsel of Peru.-BRYANT. WHERE olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, "Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north ; Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone; But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride; mane; He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill: God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill. And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear Power of Maternal Piety.-MRS. SIGOURNEY. "When I was a little cl ild, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kncel down beside he, and place her hand upon my head, while stie prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,—'O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.'" WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs, I had a mother once, like you, Who o'er my pillow hung, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, She, when the nightly couch was spread, And place her hand upon my head, And, kneeling, pray for me. But, then, there came a fearful day; Till harsh hands tore me thence away, I plucked a fair white rose, and stole And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, That eve, I knelt me down in wo, And said a lonely prayer; Yet still my temples seemed to glow Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, I rose a wild and wayward boy, Fierce passions shook me like a reed; That soft hand made my bosom bleed, Youth came-the props of virtue reeled; A marble touch my brow congealed- In foreign lands I travelled wide, Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, And with it breathed a voice of care, 66 As from the lowly sod, My son-my only one-beware! Nor sin against thy God." Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole And dimmed the tablet of the soul;- This brow the plumed helm displayed, That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot! And now, though time hath set His frosty seal upon my lot, These temples feel it yet. And if I e'er in heaven appear, Have led the wanderer there. |