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 The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, The pilgrim exile-sainted name! The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced when he came in the morning's flame, And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 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, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, And where are ye, O fearless men, That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast An army now might thunder past, The starry flag, 'neath which they fought From their old graves shall rouse them not, Hail to the morn, when first they stood 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, Thou art the shelter of the free; Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, And, rising from thy hardy stock, All who the wreath of freedom twine We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, They still shall find our lives are given Our hand. THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND. B CHARLES SPRAGUE. EHOLD! they come, those sainted forms, That drove them from their own fair land, 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, When Israel's race from bondage fled, 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; |