“Then, wrapped in night, the scudding bark,
  (That seemed, self-poised amid the dark,
      Through upper air to leap,)
  Beheld, from thy most fearful height,
  The rapid dolphin’s azure light
  Cleave, like a living meteor bright,
      The darkness of the deep.”

* * * * *

=_John Pierpont, 1785-1866._= (Manual, p. 513.)

=_326._= A TEMPERANCE SONG.

  In Eden’s green retreats,
    A water-brook—­that played
  Between soft, mossy seats,
    Beneath a plane tree’s shade,
      Whose rustling leaves
        Danced o’er its brink—­
        Was Adam’s drink,
      And also Eve’s.

* * * * *

  And, when the man of God
    From Egypt led his flock,
  They thirsted, and his rod
    Smote the Arabian rock,
      And forth a rill
        Of water gushed,
        And on they rushed,
      And drank their fill.

  Had Moses built a still,
    And dealt out to that host
  To every man his gill,
    And pledged him in a toast,
      Would cooler brains,
        Or stronger hands,
        Have braved the sands
      Of those hot plains?

  If Eden’s strength and bloom,
    Gold water thus hath given,
  If e’en beyond the tomb,
    It is the drink of heaven,
      Are not good wells
        And crystal springs
       The very things
      for our Hotels?

* * * * *

=_327._= THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

  The Pilgrim Fathers,—­where are they? 
    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 Mayflower 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    Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 last.