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!