"But though we have perished
As leaves when they fall,
Unhonored with trophies,
Unmarked by a pall,
When our names have gone out
Like a flame on the wave,
The Pale race shall weep
'Neath the curse of our brave.
"On, on, mighty Spirit!
Unchecked in thy way;
I smile on thine anger,
And sport with thy spray;
The soul that has wrestled
With Life's darkest form,
Shall baffle thy madness
And pass in the storm."
MISCELLANEOUS.
THE PILGRIMS' FAST.
The historical incident related in this poem is recorded in Cheever's "Journal of the Pilgrims."