MISCELLANEOUS.

‘ T was early morn, the low night-wind

Had fled the sun's fierce ray,

And sluggishly the leaden waves

Rolled over Plymouth Bay.

No mist was on the mountain-top,

No dew-drop in the vale;

The thirsting Summer flowers had died

Ere chilled by Autumn's wail.

The giant woods with yellow leaves

The blighted turf had paved,

And o'er the brown and arid fields

No golden harvest waved;

But calm and blue the cloudless sky

Arched over earth and sea,

As in their humble house of prayer,

The Pilgrims bowed the knee.

There gray-haired ministers of God

In supplication bent,

And artless words from childhood's lips

Sought the Omnipotent.

There woman's lip and cheek grew pale

As on the broad day stole;

And manhood's polished brow was damp

With fervency of soul.

The sultry noon-tide came and went

With steady, fervid glare;

“O God, our God, be merciful!”

Was still the Pilgrims’ prayer.

They prayed as erst Elijah prayed

Before the sons of Baal,

When on the waiting sacrifice

He called the fiery hail:

They prayed as once the prophet prayed

On Carmel's summit high,

When the little cloud rose from the sea

And blackened all the sky.

And when around that spireless church

The shades of evening fell,

The customary song went up

With clear and rapturous swell:

And while each heart was thrilling with

The chant of Faith sublime,

The rude, brown rafters of the roof

Rang with a joyous chime.

The rain! the rain! the blessed rain!

It watered field and height,

And filled the fevered atmosphere,

With vapor soft and white.

Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth

And pressed the humid sod,

Shone not each face as Moses’ shone

When “face to face” with God?