near this terra-incognita. Seventy days had the storm-tossed bark which bore Governor Winthrop and his people, ploughed the wave. As the misty line of the harbor of Salem gleamed on their view, "behold," said he, "there came forth to us, into our ship, a wild pigeon and another small bird, likewise a smell from the shore, like unto that of a garden."
Blessed land-breeze! and blessed heralds! The long-prisoned and not over-fed children crumbled their stale bread for those winged visitants. They clapped their little hands at the irised hues of the pigeon's glossy neck, as it turned its head from side to side, timidly regarding them.
But our winged herald partook of no banquet, nor accepted the hospitality of the proffered mansion. He was not even like the guest who tarrieth but a night. His business was to die. His wearied wing was exhausted his head drooped, he fell to rise no more. Like the Dove that surmounted the Deluge, he reached the Ark, but for him there was no Ararat.
The circumstance was not without its sadness. The monotony of our voyage had been varied by the advent of the little trembler, and its death was not a matter of indifference.
Bird of the land! what dost thou here?
Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound,
With nought but frowning skies above,
And wild, unfathomed seas around.
