Yea, when the frowning bulwarks
That guard this holy strand
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge
In beds of sparkling sand,
While in the waste of ocean

One hoary rock shall stand,

Be this its latest legend,

HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND!

The Steamboat.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!

With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,

That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heaped and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;

And, burning o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,

When winds are loud, and billows reel,

She thunders foaming by;

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green

That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm ;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,

Before this smoky wreath has stained
The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling

His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,
White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;

Sleep on, and, when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day!

Lexington.

SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

Waving her golden veil

Over the silent dale,

Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;
Hushed was his parting sigh,

While from his noble eye

Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing
Calmly the first-born of glory have met;

Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet!
Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death,

"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"
Nerveless the iron hand,

Raised for its native land,

Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;

As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

Fast on the soldier's path
Darken the waves of wrath,

Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;
Red glares the musket's flash,

Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

Gaily the plume of the horseman was dancing,
Never to shadow his cold brow again;
Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;
Pale is the lip of scorn,

Voiceless the trumpet horn,

Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;
Many a belted breast

Low on the turf shall rest,

Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

Snow girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale ;
Far as the tempest thrills
Over the darkened hills,

Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,
Roused by the tyrant band,
Woke all the mighty land,

Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,—
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
Borne on her Northern pine,
Long o'er the foaming brine

Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;
Heaven keep her ever free,

Wide as o'er land and sea

Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won !

On Lending a Punch-Bowl.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,
That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar; so runs the ancient tale;
'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a

flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.
'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking
round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the Dutch

man's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,

more,

-a hundred souls and

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,— To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim ;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in,-the man that never feared, He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers-the men that fought and prayed

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, "Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and

snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

"Drink, John," she said, "'twill do you good, -poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air ; And if-God bless me !-you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill."

So John did drink,-and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here;
'Tis but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,
The moss that clothes its broken walls,-the ivy on its towers ;-
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,-my eyes grow moist and
dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin,
That dooms one to those dreadful words,-"My dear, where
have you been?"

A Song

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836.

WHEN the Puritans came over,

Our hills and swamps to clear,
The woods were full of catamounts,
And Indians red as deer,

With tomahawks and scalping-knives,
That make folks' heads look queer;-
O the ship from England used to bring
A hundred wigs a year!

The crows came cawing through the air
To pluck the pilgrims' corn,

The bears came snuffing round the door
Whene'er a babe was born,

The rattlesnakes were bigger round
Than the butt of the old ram's horn
The deacon blew at meeting time

But soon they knocked the wigwams down,
And pine-tree trunk and limb

Began to sprout among the leaves

In shape of steeples slim ;

And out the little wharves were stretched

Along the ocean's rim,

And up the little school-house shot

To keep the boys in trim.

And, when at length the College rose,
The sachem cocked his eye

At every tutor's meagre ribs
Whose coat-tails whistled by:

D