From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Soon after the publication of the "Airs of Palestine," Mr. PIERPONT entered seriously upon the study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, and afterward as a member of the theological school connected with Harvard College. He left that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, was ordained as minister of the Hollis Street Unitarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Reverend Doctor HOLLEY, who had recently been elected to the presidency of the Transylvania University, in Kentucky. In 1835 and 1836, in consequence of impaired health, he spent a year abroad, passing through the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour into the East, visiting Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, Constantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some of the other cities of Greece; of his travels in which, traces will occasionally be found in some of the short poems which he has written since his return. Mr. PIERPONT has written in almost every metre, and many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, are remarkably spirited and melodious. Seve ral of them, distinguished alike for energy of thought and language, were educed by events connected with the moral and religious enterprises of the time, nearly all of which are indebted to his constant and earnest advocacy for much of their prosperity. In the preface to the collection of his poems published in 1840, he says, "It gives a true, though an | faith,-of his love of right, of freedom, and man, all too feeble expression of the author's feeling and and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred his faith in the providence and gracious promises of every thing that is at war with them; and of of God. Nay, the book is published as an expres sion of his faith in man; his faith that every line, written to rebuke high-handed or under-handed wrong, or to keep alive the fires of civil and relisupport under trial, or as an expression, or for the gious liberty,-written for solace in affliction, for excitement of Christian patriotism or devotion; or sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it even with no higher aim than to throw a little is going through some of the wearisome passages of life's history,-will be received as a proof of the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellowmen, of his desire to serve them, and consequently of his claim upon them for a charitable judgment, at least, if not even for a respectful and grateful remembrance." "PASSING AWAY." Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,— That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 66 But no; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear, 66 Passing away! passing away!" O, how bright were the wheels, that told 66 While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade That marched so calmly round above her, While yet I look'd, what a change there came! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, Yet, just as busily, swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,- FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. Two hundred years! two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide! The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon; His dance, his yell, his council-fire, And that pale pilgrim band is gone, The ark of freedom and of God. And war-that since o'er ocean came, Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, "Tis like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old; 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks, Then what are we? then what are we? Are but the break and close of day→→→→ MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead! Is ever bounding round my study chair; And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; And then bethink me that-he is not there! A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair: And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! So long watch'd over with parental care, Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there! He lives!-In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there! 131311B Thine inspiration came! And, grateful for thine aid, He built beneath the shade: That darken'd round, Till in a sylvan fane Went up the voice of prayer, Then beam'd a brighter day; On Salem's hill, Along those rocky shores, Along those olive plains, Of snowy white To honour thee, dread Power! Our strength and skill combine, By these our fathers' host Our homes, our pictured halls, These, and the breathing forms HER CHOSEN SPOT.. WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone "Thy will be done!" the sufferer said. This spot was hallow'd from that hour; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower. By the pale moon-herself more pale And spirit-like-these walks she trod; And, while no voice, from swell or vale, Was heard, she knelt upon this sod And gave her spirit back to God. That spirit, with an angel's wings, Went up from the young mother's bed: So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. She's lost to earth and earthly things; But "weep not, for she is not dead, She sleepeth!" Yea, she sleepeth here, The first that in these grounds hath slept. This grave, first water'd with the tear That child or widow'd man hath wept, Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. The babe that lay on her cold breast- And often shall he come alone, When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shall say, "This was my mother's choice For her own grave: O, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine." THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE Pilgrim Fathers,-where are they?— When the Mayflower moor'd below, 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. Still lies where he laid his houseless head;- 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 hallow'd spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, The Pilgrim spirit has not fled; It walks in noon's broad light; It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN. THE winds and waves were roaring; The music of their psalm. Not thus, O God, to praise thee, Do we, their children, throng; The temple's arch we raise thee Gives back our choral song. Yet, on the winds that bore thee Their worship and their prayers, May ours come up before thee From hearts as true as theirs! What have we, Lord, to bind us To this, the Pilgrims' shore!Their hill of graves behind us, Their watery way before, The wintry surge, that dashes Against the rocks they trod, Their memory, and their ashes,Be thou their guard, O God! We would not, Holy Father, Forsake this hallow'd spot, Till on that shore we gather Where graves and griefs are not; The shore where true devotion Shall rear no pillar'd shrine, THE EXILE AT REST. His falchion flash'd along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Here sleeps he now alone; the star Gazed as it faded and went down. He sleeps alone: the mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps his mortal form in death. High is his couch; the ocean flood Far, far below by storms is curl'd, The world he awed to mourn him? No: JERUSALEM, Jerusalem, How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen!Could I have gazed upon the dome Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells : Could I have stood on Olivet, Where once the Saviour trod, And, from its height, look'd down upon The city of our God; For is it not, Almighty God, Thy holy city still, Though there thy prophets walk no more,— Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, Nor are their voices lifted up On Zion's sadden'd brow; But still the seed of ABRAHAM Yes; every morning, as the day The holy name of ALLAH comes At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, "Lo, GOD is GOD! Before him come, I know, when at that solemn call That OMAR's mosque hears not the name But ABRAHAM'S GOD is worshipp'd there Yea, from that day when SALEM knelt And bent her queenly neck To this, when Egypt's ABRAHAM" Have bow'd before the Lord. I would have mused, while night hung out Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive trees As near him as they could, I would have stood, till night o'er earth Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Thy cross thou bearest now! And blood is on thy brow; It was not mine, nor will it be, That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, But round thy hill the spirits throng Are ringing in my ears,― Went up that day, when darkness fell From all thy firmament, And shrouded thee at noon; and when HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD! *This name is now generally written IBRAHIM. |