This was a mother's parting with her child,
A young meek Bride, on whom fair fortune smil'd,
And wooed her with a voice of love away

From childhood's home; yet, there, with fond delay
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanished day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calm heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home: through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last

The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd,

And the bright land was reached, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furled
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride

Look'd on the home that promis'd hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace

The map
of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears.
That home was darkened soon: the summer breeze
Welcom'd with death the wanderers from the seas;
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn,
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out from every side,
By the close veil of misery! - oh but ill

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow! - it knows not yet the part
Which life will teach- -to suffer and be still,
And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! -She had not learned
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd,
In weariness, from life; then came the unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sound of voices far away,
And household steps, until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers! Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow?
Something was there, that through the lingering night
Outwatches patiently the taper's light;

Something that faints not through the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness;

Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power,
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence? who can ask? the wild delirium pass'd,

And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old! And had she come,
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home,
To save her child? - E'en so nor yet in vain :
In that young heart the life sprung up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give
Seem'd this fair world, though faded; still to live

Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother, gentlest mother! can it be?"
The loved one cried "and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore,
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

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;

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.

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 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 roar'd
This was their welcome home!

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 unstain'd what there they found -
Freedom to worship God.

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

WHAT Wak'st thou, Spring? —sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute;

Thou bringest back to fill the solitudes,

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Ev'n as our hearts may be.

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,

When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade,

And happy murmurs running thro' the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.

And the bright waters

- they too hear thy call,

Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall

Makes melody, and in the forest deep,

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.

-

And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone:
Silent they seem - yet each, to thoughtful eye,
Glows with mute poesy.

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring?
The human heart with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art ;-
What wak'st thou in the heart?

Too much, oh! there too much! - we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus; yet, rous'd by thee,
What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted in the wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet-
Spring! midst the murmurs of the flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?