From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white,
Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear,
That uncaged spirit hovering, lingers near ;-
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss ?
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this!"

Soon after the publication of the "Airs of Palestine," Mr. PIERPONT entered seriously upon the study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, and afterward as a member of the theological school connected with Harvard College. He left that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, was ordained as minister of the Hollis Street Unitarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Reverend Doctor HOLLEY, who had recently been elected to the presidency of the Transylvania University, in Kentucky.

In 1835 and 1836, in consequence of impaired health, he spent a year abroad, passing through the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour into the East, visiting Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, Constantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some of the other cities of Greece; of his travels in which, traces will occasionally be found in some of the short poems which he has written since his

return.

and many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, are remarkably spirited and melodious. Several of them, distinguished alike for energy of thought and language, were educed by events connected with the moral and religious enterprises of the time, nearly all of which are indebted to his constant and earnest advocacy for much of their prosperity.

In the preface to the collection of his poems published in 1840, he says, "It gives a true, though an all too feeble expression of the author's feeling and faith,-of his love of right, of freedom, and man, and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred of every thing that is at war with them; and of his faith in the providence and gracious promises of God. Nay, the book is published as an expres sion of his faith in man; his faith that every line, written to rebuke high-handed or under-handed wrong, or to keep alive the fires of civil and religious liberty,-written for solace in affliction, for support under trial, or as an expression, or for the excitement of Christian patriotism or devotion; or even with no higher aim than to throw a little sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it is going through some of the wearisome passages of life's history,—will be received as a proof of the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellowmen, of his desire to serve them, and consequently of his claim upon them for a charitable judgment, at least, if not even for a respectful and grateful

"PASSING AWAY."

Was it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he, his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore?Hark! the notes, on my ear that play, Are set to words :-as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung; (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing;)

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

O, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow! And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed:-in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride ;Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
And the light in her eye, and the light on the
wheels,

That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimm'd,-as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face:-Yet one couldn't but

love her,

While yet I look'd, what a change there came! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame,

Yet, just as busily, swung she on;

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,
Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone
From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,-
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay,)—

"Passing away! passing away!

FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.

Two hundred years! two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!

The red man at his horrid rite,

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light

Left on the wave beneath the moon;

His dance, his yell, his council-fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,

That still, strong tide hath borne away.

And that pale pilgrim band is gone,

That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on

The ark of freedom and of God.

And war-that since o'er ocean came,
And thunder'd loud from yonder hill,
And wrapp'd its foot in sheets of flame,

To blast that ark-its storm is still.
Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,
Time, for the last two hundred years,

Has raised, and shown, and swept along.

"Tis like a dream when one awakes,

This vision of the scenes of old; "Tis like the moon when morning breaks, "T is like a tale round watchfires told.

Then what are we? then what are we?
Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that's told.

God of our fathers, in whose sight
The thousand years that sweep away
Man and the traces of his might

Are but the break and close of day-
Grant us that love of truth sublime,

That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children in all time To share thine own eternity.

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes-he is not there!
I walk my parlour floor,
And, through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall
To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that-he is not there!
I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

Before the thought comes that-he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!
Not there!-Where, then, is he?
The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"T will be our heaven to find that he is there!

FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MECHANICS' CHARITABLE ASSOCIATION.

LOUD o'er thy savage child,

O God, the night-wind roar'd,

As, houseless, in the wild

He bow'd him and adored.

Thou saw'st him there,
As to the sky
He raised his eye
In fear and prayer.

Thine inspiration came!

And, grateful for thine aid,
An altar to thy name

He built beneath the shade:
The limbs of larch

That darken'd round,
He bent and bound
In many an arch;

Till in a sylvan fane

Went up the voice of prayer,
And music's simple strain
Arose in worship there.
The arching boughs,
The roof of leaves
That summer weaves,
O'erheard his vows.

Then beam'd a brighter day;
And Salem's holy height
And Greece in glory lay
Beneath the kindling light.
Thy temple rose
On Salem's hill,
While Grecian skill
Adorn'd thy foes.

Along those rocky shores,

Along those olive plains,
Where pilgrim Genius pores
O'er Art's sublime remains,
Long colonnades

Of snowy white
Look'd forth in light
Through classic shades.

Forth from the quarry stone

The marble goddess sprung;
And, loosely round her thrown,
Her marble vesture hung;
And forth from cold
And sunless mines
Came silver shrines
And gods of gold.

The Star of Bethlehem burn'd!
And where the Stoic trod,
The altar was o'erturn'd,
Rared to an unknown God."
And now there are

No idol fanes
On all the plains
Beneath that star.

To honour thee, dread Power!

Our strength and skill combine;
And temple, tomb, and tower
Attest these gifts divine.
A swelling dome

For pride they gild,
For peace they build
An humbler home.

By these our fathers' host
Was led to victory first,
When on our guardless coast
The cloud of battle burst;
Through storm and spray,
By these controll'd,
Our natives hold
Their thundering way.

Great Source of every art!

Our homes, our pictured halls, Our throng'd and busy mart, That lifts its granite walls, And shoots to heaven Its glittering spires, To catch the fires Of morn and even;

These, and the breathing forms
The brush or chisel gives,
With this when marble warms,
With that when canvass lives;
These all combine

In countless ways
To swell thy praise,
For all are thine.

HER CHOSEN SPOT.

WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone Among these shades. A voice divine Whisper'd, "This spot shall be thine own; Here shall thy wasting form recline, Beneath the shadow of this pine."

"Thy will be done!" the sufferer said.

This spot was hallow'd from that hour; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower.

By the pale moon-herself more pale

And spirit-like-these walks she trod;
And, while no voice, from swell or vale,
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod
And gave her spirit back to God.
That spirit, with an angel's wings,

Went up from the young mother's bed: So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. She's lost to earth and earthly things;

But "weep not, for she is not dead,

She sleepeth!" Yea, she sleepeth here,
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first water'd with the tear
That child or widow'd man hath wept,
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept.

The babe that lay on her cold breastA rosebud dropp'd on drifted snowIts young hand in its father's press'd, Shall learn that she, who first caress'd Its infant cheek, now sleeps below.

And often shall he come alone,

When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shall say, "This was my mother's choice For her own grave: O, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine."

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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 Mayflower 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 watch 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 hallow'd 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 their holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,

PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN.

THE winds and waves were roaring;

The Pilgrims met for prayer;
And here, their God adoring,

They stood, in open air.
When breaking day they greeted,
And when its close was calm,
The leafless woods repeated

The music of their psalm.
Not thus, O God, to praise thee,

Do we, their children, throng; The temple's arch we raise thee

Gives back our choral song. Yet, on the winds that bore thee

Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee

From hearts as true as theirs! What have we, Lord, to bind us

To this, the Pilgrims' shore!Their hill of graves behind us,

Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes

Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes,

Be thou their guard, O God! We would not, Holy Father,

Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather

Where graves and griefs are not; The shore where true devotion

Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, And see no other ocean

Than that of love divine.

THE EXILE AT REST.

HIS falchion flash'd along the Nile;

His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unroll'd-and froze.
Here sleeps he now alone: not one

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Here sleeps he now alone; the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Hath sunk; the nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.
He sleeps alone: the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps his mortal form in death.
High is his couch; the ocean flood

Far, far below by storms is curl'd,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,'
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

The world he awed to mourn him? No:

JERUSALEM, Jerusalem,

How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen!Could I have gazed upon the dome

Above thy towers that swells,

And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells :

Could I have stood on Olivet,

Where once the Saviour trod,

And, from its height, look'd down upon The city of our God;

For is it not, Almighty God,

Thy holy city still,

Though there thy prophets walk no more,— That crowns Moriah's hill?

Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,

The streets of Salem now,

Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's sadden'd brow;
Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That kill'd them, came and wept.

But still the seed of ABRAHAM
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,

That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,

And Israel's Gon is worshipp'd yet
Where Zion lifts her head.

Yes; every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,

The holy name of ALLAH comes
From every minaret;

At every eve the mellow call

Floats on the quiet air,

"Lo, God is GOD! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!"

I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,

That OMAR's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;

But ABRAHAM's GoD is worshipp❜d there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipp'd,-hopeth charity,-
"In spirit and in truth."

Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her priest
And king,-MELCHISEDEK,

To this, when Egypt's ABRAHAM”
The sceptre and the sword

Shakes o'er her head, her holy men

Have bow'd before the Lord.
Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.

I would have mused, while night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,

Beneath those ancient olive trees

That grow in Kedron's vale,

Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,

Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the scythe of time.

The garden of Gethsemane

Those aged olive trees

Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer
Of Jesus, when in agony,

He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the MARYS stood,
Bewailing loud the Crucified,

As near him as they could,

I would have stood, till night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,

And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learn'd to bear my own.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,

And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,

And now thy cross is on thee laid

The crescent is thy cross!

It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod

That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!

But round thy hill the spirits throng

Of all thy murder'd seers,

And voices that went up from it

Are ringing in my ears,―

Went up that day, when darkness fell

From all thy firmament,

And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touch'd
Thy feet, gave up their dead :-
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,

HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD!

This name is now generally written IBRAHIM.