For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day; Slowly and sadly the stars fade away, As if even they, in their glory, could grieve A world of such exquisite beauty to leave; But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy light Long, long shall illumine the beautiful night. * * * * * SETTLEMENT OF THE GENESEE. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. Let Ruin lift his arm, and crush in dust The glittering piles and palaces of kings, And, changing crown and sceptre into rust, Doom them to sleep among forgotten things!— Let Time o’ershadow with his dusky wings, Warriors who guilty eminence have gained, And drank renown at red, polluted springs— Sacked peaceful towns—the holy shrine profaned And to their chariot-wheels the groaning captive chained! But the self-exiled Britons, who behind Left Transatlantic luxuries, and gave Their parting salutations to the wind, And, scorning the vile languor of the slave, Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave, To immortality have prouder claim: Let the bright Muse of History engrave Their names in fadeless characters of flame, And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame! No empty vision of unbounded power— No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold, Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower— Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old; At home religious bigotry controlled The struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud, Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled; And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed, And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud. No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casque Proclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade; Less daring spirits from the mighty task In terror would have shrunken: tender maid, And daughter gently reared, for God to aid Their feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer, And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed— Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair, When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair. Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast, Of ancient matrons who could deck the bier Of sire and husband, slain where host met host, And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear: Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear, And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrined The soft affections: Who loves not to hear Their praises sung?—their constancy of mind, Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!