TH

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

`HE pilgrim fathers-where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,

As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;

As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile-sainted name!

The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced when he came in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now;

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hillside and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head,

But the pilgrim, where is he?

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed. Go stand on the hill where they lie:

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast,

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn half garnered on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men,
And where are ye to-day?
I call: the hills reply again,

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The

grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;

An army now might thunder past,
And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought
In many a bloody fray,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

Hail to the morn, when first they stood
On Bunker's height,

And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood,

And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight!

Oh! 'twas a proud, exalting day,

For even our fallen fortunes lay

In light.

There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of liberty
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;

And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppressed;

All who the wreath of freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine
Are blest.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand.

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,

And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannons' loudest roar,
And storm our land;

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home, and leant on heaven

Our hand.

THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND.

B

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

EHOLD! they come, those sainted forms,
Unshaken through the strife of storms;
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down,
And earth puts on its rudest frown;
But colder, ruder was the hand

That drove them from their own fair land,
Their own fair land-refinement's chosen seat,
Art 's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat,
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,
For all but gentle charity renowned.
With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,

And burst each tender tie;

Haunts where their sunny youth was passed,

Homes where they fondly hoped at last

In peaceful age to die.

Friends, kindred, comforts, all they spurned

Their fathers' hallowed graves

And to a world of darkness turned,
Beyond a world of waves.

When Israel's race from bondage fled,
Signs from on high the wanderers led;
But here-heaven hung no symbol here,
Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer;
They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night,
Naught but the fagot's guilty light;

The cloud they gazed at was the smoke

That round their murdered brethren broke;

Nor power above, nor power below,

Sustained them in their hour of woe;