death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning friends.

They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, — when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed. to them) upon her quiet grave, in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

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XVII. — THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER.

CHARLES MACKAY.

CHARLES MACKAY, an English writer, was born in Perth in 1812. He has been, during much of his life, connected with the newspaper press. In 1858 he visited the United States, where he lectured on Poetry and Song Writing. He has published several works, the best known of which is "The Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions," published in two volumes in 1851. He is best known as a writer of spirited songs and lyrical pieces; some of which have attained great popularity. In some cases they have been set to music by himself.

FIRST VOICE.

HAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower?

WHA

Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour?

Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand

If the bright morning dawns upon the land.

SECOND VOICE.

The stars are clear above me, scarcely one

Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun;
But yet I see, on the horizon's verge,

Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge.

FIRST VOICE.

Look forth again, O watcher on the tower!
The people wake and languish for the hour;
Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine
For the full daylight which they know must shine.

SECOND VOICE.

I see not well, the morn is cloudy still, -
There is a radiance on the distant hill;

Even as I watch the glory seems to grow;
But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow.

FIRST VOICE.

And is that all, O watcher on the tower?

Look forth again; it must be near the hour.
Dost thou not see the snowy mountain-copes,
And the green woods beneath them on the slopes ?

SECOND VOICE.

A mist envelops them, I cannot trace

Their outline; but the day comes on apace.
The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes,
And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks.

FIRST VOICE.

We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower;
But look again; and tell us, hour by hour,

SECOND VOICE.

I see the hill-tops now; and Chanticleer
Crows his prophetic carol in mine ear;
I see the distant woods and fields of corn,
And Ocean gleaming in the light of morn.

FIRST VOICE.

Again, again, -O watcher on the tower!

We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour,
Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it be
A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?

Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong
As of a lark, young prophet of the noon,
Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune.

FIRST VOICE.

What doth he say, O watcher on the tower?
Is he a prophet? Doth the dawning hour
Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime,
Filled with the glories of the future time?

SECOND VOICE.

He prophesies; his heart is full; his lay
Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day,
A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm,
But sunny for the most, and clear and warm.

FIRST VOICE.

We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower,
For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour
When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong,
And Right shall rule supreme and vanquish Wrong?

SECOND VOICE.

He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace,
Of days when hate and jealousies shall cease;
When war shall die, and man's progressive mind
Soar as unfettered as its God designed.

FIRST VOICE.

Well done! thou watcher on the lonely tower!
Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour?
We pine to see it; tell us, yet again,
If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?

SECOND VOICE.

It breaks, it comes,

the misty shadows fly;

A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky ;

The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear;
The plain is yet in shade, but day is near.

XVIII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

PIERPONT.

JOHN PIERPONT was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785; and died August 27, 1866. He was originally a lawyer, but afterwards studied theology, and in 1819 was ordained minister of the Hollis Street Church in Boston, where he remained till 1845. He was afterwards settled over congregations in Troy, New York, and Medford, Massachusetts. He was an active laborer in behalf of temperance, antislavery, the improvement of prison discipline, and other reforms; and many of his poems have been called forth by the moral and religious movements of the day. His poetry is characterized by energy of expression, and a generous tone of feeling. The following poem was written for the celebration of the anniversary of the Pilgrim Society of Plymouth, in December, 1824.

HE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they?

THE

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 rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep

Still brood upon the tide

e;

And the 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 looked dark is gone;
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

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 hillside and the sea,

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 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;