THE EFFIGIES.

Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zahlt keine Nachwelt.

GOETHE.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet, thro' a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight,
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance-Chief! were not these things thine :

A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council-board

In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour'd ;

A name that drew a prouder tone

From herald, harp, and bard ;Surely these things were all thine own, So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest

By the armed knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er a breast

In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale ?-Oh! gentle mate

Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?

He wooed a bright and burning star--
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far

His fast receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours

Thro' many a lonely day,

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,

With spirit far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine !--long years With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given--
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM

FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

Look now abroad-another race has fill'd

Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads.

THE breaking waves dash'd high

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

BRYANT.

And the heavy night hung dark,

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New-England shore.