My Birthday.

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air would rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing ;-

My spirit flew in feathers, then,

That is so heavy now,

And the summer pool could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir trees, dark and high;

I used to think their slender spires
Were close against the sky !

It was a childish ignorance,—
But now, 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven,

Than when I was a boy!

My Birthday.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

"MY birthday"-what a different sound

That word had in my youthful years!

And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears.
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,
That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.

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Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordain'd to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavish'd unwisely-carelessly;
Of counsel mock'd, of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire,

Of wandering after love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That cross'd my pathway for his star! All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, re-touch, efface,

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away:

All but that freedom of the mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly ;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy, round!

The Pilgrim Fathers.

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The Pilgrim Fathers.

BY JOHN PIERPOINT.

'HE pilgrim fathers—where are they?

ΤΗ

The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,
As they break along the shore:

Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day,
When the May-flower moor'd below,

When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

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.

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 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,

Looks kindly on that spot at 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 May-flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.

Stanzas

ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP "SALDANAH."

BY THOMAS SHERIDAN.

"BRITANNIA rules the waves !"

Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellow'd from the caves
Where Lough Swilly's billow raves,
And three hundred British graves
Taint the shore.

On the Loss of the "Saldanah."

No voice of life was there!

'Tis the dead that raise that cry!
The dead, who raised no prayer
As they sunk in wild despair,
Chant in scorn that boastful air,
Where they lie.

"Rule, Britannia," sung the crew,
When the stout Saldanah sail'd;
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which in battle, to subdue,

Ne'er had fail'd.

Bright rose the laughing morn,
(That morn that seal'd her doom,)
Dark and sad is her return,
And the storm-lights faintly burn,
As they toss upon her stern,

'Mid the gloom.

From the lonely beacon's height,
As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw their flashing light
Drive swift athwart the night;

Yet the wind was fair, and right
To the Sound.

But no mortal power shall now
That crew and vessel save;
They are shrouded as they go
In a hurricane of snow,

And the track beneath her prow

Is their grave.

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