No! not alone!-her beauteous shade
Attends her noiseless way;
As some sweet memory, undecay'd,
Clings to the heart for aye,
And haunts it-wheresoe'er we go,
Through every scene of joy and woe.
And not alone;- -for day and night
Escort her o'er the deep;
And round her solitary flight
The stars their vigils keep.
Above, below, are circling skies,
And heaven around her pathway lies.
And not alone;-for hopes and fears
Go with her wandering sail;
And bright eyes watch, through gathering tears,
Its distant cloud to hail;
And prayers for her at midnight lone
Ascend, unheard by all, save One.
And not alone;-for round her glow
The vital light and air;
And something that in whispers low
Tells to man's spirit there,
Upon her waste and weary road,
A present, all pervading God!
BY JOHN PIERPOINT.
THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their
As they break along the shore:
Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day,
When the May-flower 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot at 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.
ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH.
'BRITANNIA rules the waves !'
Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellow'd from the caves
Where Lough Swilly's billow raves,
And three hundred British graves
Taint the shore.
No voice of life was there!
"Tis the dead that raise that cry;
The dead, who raised no prayer
As they sunk in wild despair,
Chaunt in scorn that boastful air,
Where they lie.
ON THE LOSS OF THE SALDANAH.
'Rule Britannia' sung the crew
When the stout Saldanah sail'd;
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which in battle to subdue
Bright rose the laughing morn
(That morn that seal'd her doom),
Dark and sad is her return,
And the storm-lights faintly burn,
As they toss upon her stern
From the lonely beacon's height,
As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw their flashing light
Drive swift athwart the night;
Yet the wind was fair, and right
To the Sound.
But no mortal power shall now
That crew and vessel save;-
They are shrouded as they go
In a hurricane of snow,
And the track beneath her prow
Is their grave.
There are spirits of the deep,
Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep
On rock, or mountain steep,
Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep
The wrath of Heaven.
ON THE LOSS OF THE SALDANAH.
High the eddying mists are whirl'd
As they rear their giant forms;
See! their tempest flag's unfurl'd,-
Fierce they sweep the prostrate world,
And the withering lightning's hurl'd
Through the storms.
O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commission'd watch to keep;
Down, down, with thundering roar,
The exulting demons pour.--
The Saldanah floats no more
O'er the deep!
The dread behest is past!
All is silent as the grave;
One shriek was first and last--
Scarce a death-sob drunk the blast,
As sank her towering mast
Beneath the wave.
'Britannia rules the waves'-
O vain and impious boast!
Go mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He, who sinks or saves,
Scars the sands with countless graves
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