THE PILGRIM FATHERS
FELICIA HEMANS
The breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd 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's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang:
Till the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang,
To the anthem of the free.
The ocean-eagle soar'd
From his nest, by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:—
Such was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.