Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray; And warm thy old heart with a glass. Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone; Then say how may that come to pass? Well-a-day!' Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray; And knock at the jolly priest's door. 'The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!' The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'He will fasten his locks, And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!' The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there. 'His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!' My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.' The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day!' _FELICIA HEMANS_ THE PILGRIM FATHERS THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;-- Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang: Till the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, To the anthem of the free. The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: Such was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- No--'twas a faith's pure shrine. Yes, call it holy ground, Which first their brave feet trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found-- Freedom to worship God! THE VOICE OF SPRING I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. --But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!