Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau.J. NEAL.

O SwitzERLAND, my country, 'tis to thee I strike my harp in agony. My country, nurse of Liberty, Home of the gallant, great, and free, My sullen harp I strike to thee. O! I have lost you all! Parents, and home, and friends: Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall; A mountain's plumage o'er you bends. The cliff-yew of funereal gloom Is now the only mourning plume That nods above a people's tomb. Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, And, deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake, And repeat the young huntsman's cry—’ “ That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take Their browzing flocks, at the morning's break, Far over the hills, not one is awake In the swell of thy peaceable sky. They sit on that wave with a motionless wing, And their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds sing Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by: For deep, in that blue-bosomed water, is laid As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song, In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along. The heavens are all blue, and the billow’s bright verge Is frothily laved by a whispering surge, That heaves, incessant, a tranquil dirge, To lull the pale forms that sleep below— Forms that rock as the waters flow. That bright lake is still as a liquid sky; And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly, They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye. The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds Is as light as the clouds that are borne by the winds. Soft over its bosom the dim vapors hover In morning's first light; and the snowy-winged plover, That skims o'er the deep, Where my loved ones sleep,

No note of joy on this solitude flings,
Nor shakes the mist from his drooping wings.
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No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior's arm on the hills was reared; No death-angel’s trump o'er the ocean was blown; No mantle of wrath over heaven was thrown; No armies of light, with their banners of flame, On neighing steeds, through the sunset came, Or leaping from space appeared; No earthquake reeled; no Thunderer stormed; No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed; No voices in heaven were heard. But the hour when the sun in his pride went down, While his parting hung rich o'er the world, While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown, And his streamers of gold were unfurled, An everlasting hill was torn From its primeval base, and borne, In gold and crimson vapors dressed, To where a people are at rest. Slowly it came in its mountain wrath; And the forest vanished before its path; And the rude cliffs bowed; and the waters fled; And the living were buried, while, over their head, They heard the full march of their foe as he sped;— And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead— The mountain sepulchre of all I loved The village sank, and the giant trees Leaned back from the encountering breeze, As this tremendous pageant moved. The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, And came down in his pomp ; and his path is shown In barrenness and ruin:—there His ancient mysteries lay bare ; His rocks in nakedness arise; His desolations mock the skies. Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell ! An Alpine monument may dwell Upon thy bosom, O my home ! The mountain—thy pall and thy prison—may keep thee, I shall see thee no more; but till death I will weep thee; Of thy blue dwelling dream wherever I roam, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam.

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Lines written on visiting the beautiful Burying-ground at
JVew Haven.—CHRIsT1AN D1scIPLE.

0, when E are they, whose all that earth could give,
Beneath these senseless marbles disappeared 2
Where even they who taught these stones to grieve—
The hands that hewed them, and the hearts that reared 2
Such the poor bounds of all that's hoped or feared,
Within the griefs and smiles of this short day!
Here sunk the honored, vanished the endeared;
This the last tribute love to love could pay—
An idle, pageant pile to graces passed away.

Why deck these sculptured trophies of the tomb
Why, victims, garland thus the spoiler's fane :
Hope ye by these to avert oblivion's doom,
In grief ambitious, and in ashes vain?
Go, rather, bid the sand the trace retain,
Of all that parted virtue felt and did
Yet powerless man revolts at ruin’s reign;
Hence blazoned flattery mocks pride's coffin lid;
Hence towered on Egypt’s plains the giant pyramid.

Sink, mean memorials of what cannot die;
Be lowly as the relics ye o’erspread;
Nor lift your funeral forms so gorgeously,
To tell who slumbers in each narrow bed:
I would not honor thus the sainted dead,
Nor to each stranger's careless ear declare
My sacred griefs for joy and friendship fled.
O, let me hide the names of those that were
Deep in my stricken heart, and shrine them only there!

The Pilgrim Fathers.-PIERpoNT

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 rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below.

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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.

Song of the Pilgrims.-T. C. UPHAM.

THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,

And, bounding with the wave and wind,

We leave Old England’s shores behind—
Leave behind our native shore,
Homes, and all we loved before.

The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of wo,
Till sailors’ eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;
Still, as long as life shall last,
From that shore we’ll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,
Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
But bows beneath a despot's rod
Even where it seeks to worship God.
Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

O, see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land, and other skies!
Columbian hills have met our view
Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu !
Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blessed.

As long as yonder firs shall spress
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head.--
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land,-
Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.

Now to the King of kings we’ll raise
The paan loud of sacred praise;
More loud than sounds the swelling breeze,
More loud than speak the rolling seas?
Happier lands have met our views
England’s shores, adieu ! adieu !

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