The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
And the heavy night hung dark The hills and water o’er, When a band of exiles moored 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 gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!