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THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRST EMIGRANT.

UPON the dreadful battle-field, methought,

High on Breed's Hill, after the fight was done,
Amid the dead, yet fearing not the dead,

I stood before a form, that sadden'd night.
"Featureless presence! Are thy tresses mist?
Or hast thou lineaments? The blast unveils thee,
Visage of mystery! and swirls the cloud
That seems thy carpet." From the earth it rose
Slow, from a nameless tomb, with human gore
Polluted in the fight of yesterday,

Nor scatter'd the red death-dews from a flower;
A dim form, mingling with the tempest's light,
All indistinct, as the moon's shrouded beams,
Seen thro' the snow flakes, when they fluttering fall,
Muffling the mountain echoes silently.

The seeming brow was turn'd to heav'n, the hands
In deprecation waved. "Cloud-involved moon!
Stars, that from earth's blood-bolter'd face withdraw
Your blasted beams," exclaim'd a hollow voice;
"For peace I cross'd the sable rolling seas,
Left country, friends, all, but my God, for peace
To worship Him in truth and purity.

I first, from persecution flying, rear'd

The white man's home amid Columbian woods,

God's altar, in the unhewn temple wild
Of Nature. There, where bright Connecticut
Waters a sin-found Eden, with my sons

I kneel'd, and gave the God of deserts praise.
I kiss'd their hands; I bade them live in love,
And sometimes think of me; and then I slept.
They wept; they dug, near ocean's echoing shore,
My narrow bed of rest; and unknown flowers
Bloom'd o'er it, drooping lonely. But the blood
Of murder hath profaned the shuddering tomb,
And call'd the slumberer from his bed of worms.
In vain for peace, for peace I cross'd the seas,
And vainly left, far east, my mother's grave;
Nor may my children's children dwell in peace,
Nor worship God in truth and purity."

HANNAH RATCLIFFE.

IF e'er she knew an evil thought,
She spoke no evil word.

Peace to the gentle ! she hath sought
The bosom of her Lord.

She lived to love, and loved to bless

Whatever He hath made;

But early on her gentleness

His chastening hand He laid.

Like a maim'd linnet, nursed with care,

She graced a home of bliss;

And dwelt in thankful quiet there,
To show what goodness is.

Her presence was a noiseless power,
That sooth'd us day by day-

A modest, meek, secluded flower,
That smiled, and pass'd away.

So meek she was, that, when she died,
We miss'd the lonely one,

As when we feel, on Loxley's side,
The silent sunshine gone.

But memory brings to sunless bowers
The light they knew before;
And Hannah's quiet smile is ours,
Though Hannah is no more.

Her pale face visits yet my heart
And oft my guest will be;

O White Rose ! thou shalt not depart ;
But wither here with me.

THE WAY BROAD-LEAF.

WHEN Winter howls along the hill,
We find the broad-leaf'd plantain still;
The way broad-leaf, of herbs the chief,
We never miss the way broad-leaf;
'Tis common as the poor.

To soothe the cruel scorner's woes,
Beneath the scorner's feet it grows;
Neglected, trampled, still it thrives,
A creature of unnumber'd lives;
How like the trampled poor!

When roses die, it still remains;
Hoof-crush'd, beneath unpitying rains,
Roll'd o'er by ringing carts and wains,
It suffers still, but ne'er complains;
Just like the helpless poor!

Scorn'd by the bluebells-or bent o'er Their graves beneath the sycamore— Meek, modest, silent, useful still,

It loves to do the gentle will

Of Him who loves the poor!

PROLOGUE TO WATT TYLER.

A PLAY, BY JOHN WATKINS.

WHILE they whose sordid lusts oppress a state,
Forestall, because they dread, the public hate,
Slow to resent are nations; man endures
The curse of bondage, better than he cures.
We tremble when the ocean, white with foam,
Hails the deep voice of rivers roaring home,
And the black sky, which fire's wild instinct rends,
Like a Niagara of clouds descends;

But calm succeeds, the mountain'd plain subsides,
In music soon the meeken'd river glides,
And when the wholesome hurricane is o'er,
Earth wears a look more lovely than before.
Not always thus, when nations, stung to rage,
On kings and priests a war of vengeance wage;
E'en though triumphant, oft with ruin fraught,
The human tempest strengthens what it smote ;
O'er rout or victory, derision names
A Louis Philippe, or a second James;
A Cromwell or Napoleon, cursed with might,
Turns hope to darkness, with portentous light,
Plague from the enthusiast's sinless Eden brings,
And plumed by Freedom, tramples on her wings.

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