THE PILGRIM'S FUNERAL.

Whose plashings mingle with the village-din,
A rural low and bleat. Where curl'd that smoke,
Glitter white walls, and cluster roofs of men,
With terraced gardens, leaning to the wave,
Religion rearing spires, and Learning domes,
To the bright skies that arch this Eden-spot.
The rude canoe has vanish'd, but swift keels
Wave joyous o'er the smiling, sparkling flood
That lies in calm obedience at the feet

Of those that freed it from its dungeon-shades.

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LXXXVI. THE PILGRIM'S FUNERAL.

It was a wintry scene,

The hills were whitened o'er,

JOHN H. BRYANT.

And the chill north-winds were blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.

Gone was the wood-bird's lay,

That the summer forest fills,

And the voice of the stream has pass'd away
From its path among the hills.

And the low sun coldly smil'd

Through the boughs of the ancient wood, Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child Around a coffin stood.

They raised it gently up,

And, through the untrodden snow, They bore it along, with a solemn step, To a woody vale below.

And grief was in each eye,

As they moved towards the spot.
And brief, low speech, and tear and sigh
Told that a friend was not.

When they laid his cold corpse low
In its dark and narrow cell,

Heavy the mingled earth and snow

Upon his coffin fell.

Weeping, they pass'd away,

And left him there alone,

With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest stone.

When the winter storms were gone, And the strange birds sung around, Green grass and violets sprung upon That spot of holy ground.

And o'er him giant trees
Their proud arms toss'd on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wander'd through the sky.

When these were overspread
With the hues that Autumn gave,
They bow'd them in the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.

These woods are perish'd now,
And that humble grave forgot,

And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough
O'er that once sacred spot.

Two centuries are flown
Since they laid his cold corpse low,

And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown
To the breezes long ago.

And they who laid them there,
That sad and suffering train,

Now sleep in dust,—to tell us where,
No letter'd stones remain.

Their memory remains,

And ever shall remain,

More lasting than the aged fanes

Of Egypt's storied plain.

LXXXVIII-THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover
Rings a low farewell:-

Now the birds of Autumn shiver,

Where the withered beach-leaves quiver,

O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,

Reddening in the rising sun;

Now the flowers around the fountains
Perish one by one :-

Not a spire of grass is growing,

But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strewing
With a mantled dun

Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrow'd glade—

Not as when in winter pealing,
Such a din is made.

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,
As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering

Round the clifted rock's bare height

All the bordering mountains covering

With a dim, uncertain light :—

Now, a fresher wind prevailing,

Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding
Through the still and hazy air,

Like a sheeted spectre gliding

In a torch's glare :—

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

Few the hours, her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.

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LXXXIX.-MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

JOHN NEAL.

THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night,

To the presence of night alone—

In a near and unchangeable tone

Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky.
And breathed out a blessing-and flown!

Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;

Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light,
Like a conqueror shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold

On the clouds that unfold,

Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides
On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides,
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides,
Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne!

Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,
That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night.
There are hautboys and flutes too, forever at play,
When the evening is near, and the sun is away,
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are play'd—
By spirits, unseen, and unknown,

But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes, alone,

In one sweet dreamy tone,

Are ever blown,

Forever and forever.