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BURIAL HILL AT PLYMOUTH.

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.
And the moon's cold light as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head:

But the pilgrim-where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest;

When summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled,

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore

Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

REV. J. PIERPOINT.

PRISCILLA, THE PILGRIM MAIDEN.*

Through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;

Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, Sailless, sombre, and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind;

Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow;

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,

Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting

many.

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift

Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,

While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.

* Priscilla Mullins, afterwards the wife of John Alden, above alluded to.