THE PILGRIM FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY?

THE 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Is seen and then withdrawn.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 hill-side 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.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead
With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore

Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE ROCK OF THE PILGRIMS.

A ROCK in the wilderness welcomed our sires,
From bondage far over the dark-rolling sea;
Ou that holy altar they kindled their fires,

Jehovah! which glow in our bosoms for Thee.

Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower,
Or rose from the soil that was sown by Thy hand;
The mountain and valley rejoiced in Thy power,
And heaven encircled and smiled on the land.

The pilgrims of old an example have given
Of mild resignation, devotion, and love,

Which beams like a star in the blue vault of heaven,
A beacon-light hung in their mansion above.

In church and cathedral we kneel in our prayer,—
Their temple and chapel were valley and hill;
But God is the same, in the aisle or the air,
And He is the Rock that we lean upon still.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

THE SONG OF THE PILGRIMS.

THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,
And, bounding with the wave and wind,
We leave old England's shores behind;
Leave behind our native shore,

Homes, and all we loved before.

The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of woe,
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;

Still, as long as life shall last,

From that shore we'll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,

Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
But bows beneath a despot's rod,
Even where it seeks to worship God.

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o'er the troubled deep!

Oh, see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land and other skies!
Columbia's hills have met our view!
Adieu! old England's shores, adieu!

Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blest.

As long as yonder firs shall spread
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land,

Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.

Now to the King of kings we'll raise
Tho pæan loud of sacred praise,

More loud than sounds the swelling breeze!
More loud than speak the rolling seas!

Happier lands have met our view!
England's shores, adieu! adieu!

THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAM.

THE FATHERS OF NEW ENGLAND.

BEHOLD! 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, comfort, 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;
A fearful path they trod,

And dared a fearful doom,

To build an altar to their God,

And find a quiet, tomb.

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand,
On yonder ice-bound rock,

Stern and resolved, that faithful band,
To meet fate's rudest shock.
Though anguish rends the father's breast
For them, his dearest and his best,
With him the waste who trod,-
Though tears that freeze, the mother sheds.
Upon her children's houseless heads,-
The Christian turns to God!

In grateful adoration now,

Upon the barren sands they bow.

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer

As bursts in desolation there?

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power

As waits to crown that feeble hour?

There into life an infant empire springs!
There falls the iron from the soul;
There liberty's young accents roll
Up to the King of kings!

To fair creation's farthest bound

That thrilling summons yet shall sound;
The dreaming nations shall awake,

And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake.
Pontiff and prince, your sway

Must crumble from that day;

Before the loftier throne of heaven

The hand is raised, the pledge is given,—

One monarch to obey, one creed to own,

That monarch, God,-that creed, His word alone.