revolution, to the altar of freedom. Glorious trio of triumphal piles !—triumphal, though the Pilgrims, and the day of victorious battle, and the peerless chief who led the host. to victory, are past--triumphal, in that they quicken not nor brighten the names, and deeds, and memories of the illustrious dead— the living and immortal dead--but that they will stand there on Bunker's height, on Plymouth's Rock, and at the Republic's Capital, linking generations of grateful children to the heroic Fathers making them, through their gratitude, worthy of the name and fame of the Pilgrims ! And yet, why should the marble rise to such as these? Why-save to honor the living, rather than the dead? Of what avail are "Storied urn and animated bust," to embalm or glorify the memories of the 'immortal? The rock on which they landed; the wilderness they subdued; the continent they planted; the hemisphere and world they have overspread with the splendor of their achievements--these are the Pilgrims' monuments. The history of a New World piles their time-defying column of perils dared, of sacrifices made, of the battle fought and the victory won, until it overtops Grecian or Roman fame. A monument to the Pilgrims!--it rises from a nation's heart, spreads through a nation's proud memory, and points on and up in a nation's present pulsings and mighty future. And their name and spirit are written all over it-written in the industry and enterprise that survive them; honoring their example in the free schools, on the free altars, in the free thought and speech, and on the free soil which they bequeathed, as our priceless inheritance; and in the institutions by which they triumphed, and which are our glory and the admiration of the world, the Pilgrims have their monument, more durable than marble or granite. They will be glorified when the pyramids shall have crumbled, and the rock-piles builded to their memory are powdered under the heel of time. It is only we, their children, whom special monuments can serve. These will testify our gratitude, to our own honor, more than they can add to the immortality of our Pilgrim Fathers FREEDOM. By the hope within us springing, By that sun, whose light is bringing O remember, life can be No charm for him who lives not free! NEW ENGLAND. BY J. G. PERCIVAL HAIL to the land whereon we tread, The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, No slave is here; our unchain'd feet Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave; With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay There is no other land like thee, Thou art the shelter of the free ; Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, And, rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, All, who the wreath of Freedom twine Beneath the shadow of their vine, Are bless'd. We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, They still shall find our lives are given LET Spain boast the treasures that grow in her mines; |