LESSON XCIV.

The Pilgrim Fathers.-C. SPRAGUE.

BEHOLD! they come-
-those sainted forms,
Unshaken through the strife of storms;
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down,
And earth puts on its rudest frown;
But colder, ruder was the hand,

That drove them from their own fair land,—
Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat,
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat;
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,
For all, but gentle charity, renowned.

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,
And burst each tender tie;

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed,
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last,

In peaceful age, to die;

Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned-
Their fathers' hallowed graves,
And to a world of darkness turned,
Beyond a world of waves.

But not alone, not all unblessed,

The exile sought a place of rest;
ONE dared with him to burst the knot,
That bound her to her native spot;
Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke,
As round their bark the billows broke;
She, through the midnight watch, was there,
With him to bend her knees in prayer;
She trod the shore with girded heart,
Through good and ill to claim her part;
In life, in death, with him to seal
Her kindred love, her kindred zeal.

They come that coming who shall tell?
The eye may weep, the heart may swell,
But the poor tongue in vain essays
A fitting note for them to raise.
We hear the after-shout, that rings
For them who smote the power of kings-
The swelling triumph all would share;
But who the dark defeat would dare,
And boldly meet the wrath and wo,
That wait the unsuccessful blow?

It were an envied fate, we deem,
To live a land's recorded theme,
When we are in the tomb:

We, too, might yield the joys of home,
And waves of winter darkness roam,
And tread a shore of gloom,-

Knew we, those waves, through coming time,
Should roll our names to every clime;

Felt we, that millions on that shore
Should stand, our memory to adore:
But no glad vision burst in light
Upon the pilgrims' aching sight;

Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled; Deep shadows vailed the way they held; The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, Their monument, a grave without a name.

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand,
On yonder ice-bound rock,

Stern and resolved, that faithful band,
To meet fate's rudest shock.

Though anguish rends the father's breast,
For them, his dearest and his best,

With him the waste who trod-
Though tears, that freeze, the mother sheds
Upon her children's houseless heads-
The Christian turns to God!

In grateful adoration now,

Upon the barren sands they bow.

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer,
As bursts in desolation there?

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power,
As waits to crown that feeble hour?
There into life an infant empire springs!
There falls the iron from the soul;
There liberty's young accents roll
Up to the King of kings!

To fair creation's farthest bound,
That thrilling summons yet shall sound;
The dreaming nations shall awake,
And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake.
Pontiff and prince, your sway

Must crumble from that day;
Before the loftier throne of Heaven,
The hand is raised, the pledge is given-
One monarch to obey, one creed to own,-
That monarch, God,-that creed, his word alone

Spread out earth's holiest records here,
Of days and deeds to reverence dear;
A zeal like this what pious legends tell?
On kingdoms built

In blood and guilt,

The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell;
But what exploit with theirs shall page,
Who rose to bless their kind,-
Who left their nation and their age,

Man's spirit to unbind?

Who boundless seas passed o'er,

And boldly met, in every path,

Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath,

To dedicate a shore,

Where piety's meek train might breathe their vow, And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow; Where liberty's glad race might proudly come, And set up there an everlasting home?

LESSON XCV.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.—Mrs. HEMANS.

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tost;

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 the 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's gloom,
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And 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 roaredThis was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst 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 spoils of war?-
They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod :

They have left unstained what there they found—
Freedom to worship God!

LESSON XCVI.

Hymn for the second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Charlestown, Mass.-PIERPont.

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.